


All Men Must Serve

by Mikoyasha



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-20
Updated: 2015-09-15
Packaged: 2018-04-16 06:36:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4614954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mikoyasha/pseuds/Mikoyasha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>REPOST. They'd thought the road trip was the end of it, just a sordid start to another year in King's Landing. But she can't seem to extricate herself from the debauched Jaime Lannister, and he just can't seem to shake that sad excuse for a woman off of the varsity basketball team. Mutual animosity turns into a desperate codependence. Who exactly is helping whom to navigate the studious, political, and sexual culture of Valyrian University?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Milkshakes

**Author's Note:**

> A slightly edited repost from... gosh, a year ago? Two years ago? I can't remember. I removed it along with 'What's Dead May Never Die.' I'm a writer of the self-loathing sort, so I do this sort of thing. Put things up and take them down. But I miss this fandom incredibly, and I miss all of you sweet readers. So, if you'll still have me, please enjoy this chapter. I have the second chapter written and edited. It's considerably longer, and I'll be posting it soon, as soon as I've polished the third chapter a bit more. :)

She regretted taking the ad already. She’d breathed it in, hands shaking at the thought of one thousand dragons, notes wadded into a supple bend as she stashed it away into her college fund. She’d known it was sketchy, would probably end up doing her more harm than good—yet here she stood, leaning against the hot white of her Honda Civic. Her arms rested on the hood of the car, sweat pooling down the back of her hooded black t-shirt. _What’s he doing?_ She ran her fingers through the prickly hairs at the base of her skull, wet. _It’s been an hour_.

She could see the sea from here, the whispery waters ablaze with the yellow of the noon sun. Part of her vaguely desired to jump from the shorter cliffs into the ragged and warm waters, chilling her body. Brienne had lazed in the car at first, daydreaming in the air condition. Twenty minutes later, she’d cranked down her windows and silenced the engine and the radio in an effort to conserve gas. Within three minutes her skin was melting into the seat, her fingers burned against the steering wheel, and her knees suddenly seemed too close to her chest. She’d thrown open the glove compartment, slathered on some deodorant, and stumbled out of the car.

She would have hazarded that being near the sea might have had more of a bearing on the temperature, but only the slightest of breezes buffeted her slick biceps. Brienne laid her head against the hood of the car with her eyes closed, felt the heat eat at her eyelids, and looked again at the mansion, perched on a distant hilltop. She could not make out any details except for lavish beauty. It was huge and modern, with what appeared to be two high-ceilinged floors. Wide and stately entrance steps led to mauve archways that enshrouded a breezy wrap-around porch. A fountain gurgled in the center of a massive and well maintained courtyard, buzzing with wild-colored flowers. After the initial ten minutes, Brienne had driven up the long, gravel pathway through the trees. Sadly the mansion was surrounded by a large gate; security guards were posted outside, and entry required a numeric code. The guard had attempted to call him twice, to no avail.

Calling was worthless. She’d attempted twelve times with no luck. The only time she’d heard from him was when she’d answered the ad. He’d texted her a time and a place.

“Jaime Lannister,” she grumbled, kneading her sunburned eyebrows with her fingertips. _What a great first start_. She could feel the energy leaving her body in the heat’s slow kiss…

“Are you gonna pass out already, lightweight?”

Brienne’s eyes jerked open, searching wildly for the source of the voice.

“Dude,” he said, approaching her from behind, “You look like a fuckin’ tomato.”

She turned to face him—he hadn’t come from the direction of the house—and slicked her sweat-greased hair back from her forehead. She saw him grimace, but she hardly noticed. Jaime Lannister was shirtless: he was chiseled and bronze, approximately her height, with broad shoulders and a relentless cocky sway. His eyes were deep and green, and his hair… woven gold that fell in waves to his jaw.

Brienne knew she was going to hate him from the moment she saw him.

“It’s been over an hour,” she said shortly, “Where exactly were you?”

Jaime combed his hair with his fingers and shoved a backwards baseball cap on his head. “I thought I’d take a quick dive before snoring my life away for the next year. Is that too much to ask?” He narrowed his eyes at her. “Are you a _woman_?”

Brienne ignored him; she felt her face heat, but it was already beet red. “You could have texted me a later time. You specifically told me this time.”

“You _are_ a woman—you sound like one, anyway. Kinda husky.”

“I’m glad your summer away from school hasn’t dulled your observational skills.”

He neared her, eyebrows furrowed. “You’ve got like six million freckles. My fault, I bet. Accept my apology.”

She felt her shoulders stiffen as he entered her personal space. _The freckles weren’t nearly as bad before, but after an hour of standing out here waiting for someone to finish his swimming lessons…_ “Where are your bags?” she asked curtly, eyeing his hands, which were hooked on the lip of his sagging sweatpants. Empty. She looked around his figure to the front of her Honda, hoping to find a sports tote bag at the least. She stifled a groan and it came out as an exasperated sigh.

“I don’t have any baggage today, I’m a free man,” he smirked. He maneuvered around her and grabbed the handle of her back door. “Mind unlocking it, Freckles?”

Brienne fought the urge to slam his face into the tinted window. “You’re telling me you don’t have _any_ bags? You’re going to school hundreds of miles away and you don’t even have a change of underwear?”

“Why, you planning on having some fun in here?” he patted his hips. The question seemed forcibly suggestive.

Brienne didn’t reply.

“I’ve got my wallet, that’s all that matters. And I’ve got all your wages right here in its leather pockets. I shipped the rest of my shit ages ago. You worry too much, Frecks.” He tugged on the handle again, raising his eyebrows at her. “Unlock it, please.”

She obliged. He slid into the backseat, lounging with his head against the opposite door so that he could have an unshielded view of Brienne. She ducked into the driver’s seat, aggressively jabbing the key into the ignition. The engine wearily grumbled to life. She reset her rearview mirror (she’d adjusted it so that she could watch for his descent from the mansion) and found Jaime’s incredibly attractive face in its reflection. Brienne sighed again inwardly.

“You look sad, wench. Is it because I’m not sitting shotgun?”

“Yes, that must be the reason,” she said dryly. Her arm draped over the back of the passenger seat as she turned to look out the rear window. She slowly gassed the small car in the reverse and swung around in the gravel. Jaime’s bristly cheek grazed her right forearm and she jerked it back to her side.

“I’m sitting back here because I just want it to be clear that you’re the chauffeur,” he breathed, tipping his hat off into the front seat, “And that this is an unbearable but irrevocable arrangement. In case we see anyone I know. You understand.”

 _Congratulations on your use of multisyllabic vocabulary words_ , she thought bitterly. “Fine by me,” she said. _I don’t fraternize with insufferable, spoiled brats_. He was lucky he’d promised her such a handsome purse for putting up with him, otherwise she’d be tempted to stomp on her brakes and watch his head bounce violently off the back of the passenger seat’s head rest.

The drive out of Lannisport was calming. The busybodies hustling at the ports, the mostly-white, preppy kids shooting soccer balls through field goals, the frilly dogs strutting down residential sidewalks… all of it stilled Jaime. It filled Brienne with a nervous energy that she couldn’t account for, and she thought, _I want to come back to this place someday_. She didn’t know if she could speak for the isolated residence some miles back, looming over the city like a sunbathing lion. Something could be said for Jaime’s family—they were _rich_ —they were influential. The whole city seemed to have one fat ear perked up for the Lannister name. Lannister was on warehouses, it was on a few company signs, and she spotted one law firm… someone or other “& Lannister.” She suspected his name was on places that she couldn’t see.

“Your family appears to be quite far-reaching,” Brienne said civilly, slowing to a stop at a cross-section in the road. She waved the go-ahead to a woman in a minivan.

“You might say that, wench,” Jaime replied. He’d taken a liking to that word. “But it’s mostly my father who is far-reaching. Quite the menace on Wall Street.”

“I see,” she said appreciatively. In reality, the thought made her slightly nauseous. “If you care to know, my name’s Brienne.”

“Cute that you think I care, chauffeur.”

“Thought I’d give you the benefit of the doubt,” she muttered as she turned down an asphalt road that smelled distinctly of dead fish. She rolled up the windows and glared at him in the rearview mirror, infuriated by his sloppy grin, like the whole world could have belonged to him, if he’d only asked.

He met her eyes and winked. “Here, let me give you a shoulder massage. How would you like that, _Brienne_? Just drive.” Jolts went through her when his thumbs pressed circles into her lower neck and firmly grasped her shoulders, kneading her knotted muscles. But she wasn’t sure if that was due to the massage, or the way he’d purred her name, rolled it around on his tongue like a piece of candy.

“You have traps the size of a linebacker,” Jaime grunted, and she violently shrugged him off, feeling more and more stupid the longer he spoke. He was incapable of saying anything good about her. She was pretty thick-skinned, but she would be surprised if her self-esteem wasn’t in tatters by the end of the trip.

Brienne sped up the ramp of an overpass and merged into traffic. The speed helped her to blow off some steam. She wanted to gas it some more, just to feel the thrill, gust out the anger that was mounting in her chest, red-hot embarrassment that might soon well over in tears. She followed the speed limit religiously, thinking, _Dragons, dragons, dragons._

Jaime slithered up to the back of her seat, breathing on her neck. His arms were crossed behind her headrest, and he just stared at her rearview mirror hoping to make eye contact with her. _He’s just bored_ , she realized finally, though that didn’t make the situation easier. She still had another eight hours to deal with his short attention span and sadistic, recreational jabs. She felt the curled ends of his hair tickle her shoulder and she resisted shivering.

But he noticed the goosebumps and laughed.

Her breathing slowed as she focused on the black highway slipping beneath her wheels. “Don’t worry. I have no interest in you.”

“Of course you do,” he scoffed. And his easy authority made her heart both sink and boil. “I know you must wonder what it’s like. You know, to be touched.”

Brienne’s ears were on fire, but her face remained hardened. She turned up the air conditioning and impressed herself with her own cool tone. “I don’t see why it’s any of your business, I’m just your driver.”

“It’s okay, you’re not the only one who’s curious,” Jaime retorted breezily. And she heard the implication. _Are you a lesbian?_ Or perhaps, the other implications, the same implications they all seemed to voice, _have you ever done desperate things?_ Sometimes they asked her things they never said aloud, things they didn’t know that they asked, things that they didn’t know they were dying to know. _How does it feel to be totally unlooked at, not invisible, but too visible, so visible that instead of unintentionally, you have to look at people_ intentionally _dismiss you?_

“Jaime, I’m driving,” Brienne said quietly. She went cold. It was some time before her senses came back to her one by one as she fought the roiling nausea, malodorous waves at the base of tongue. _Brienne the Beauty. He’d kissed her so tenderly at her jaw, her neck, his chapped lips cold from the lip of the beer bottle, raising heated bumps like cherry red rashes. She’d felt so… female._

Brienne imagined herself weeping silently as Jaime looked on her with horror and deep, gut-wrenching guilt. But she did no such thing.

\--

Nobody spoke for three and a half hours. Brienne realized after the first hour or so that the Jaime had fallen asleep, sprawled out over the backseat. His nap afforded her some peace of mind. She watched the trees change in morphology. Long to short, thin to fat, fat to fatter. Then color. Somewhere along the way the trees had adapted yellows and reds, more readily available for autumn than Lannisport. The sky turned a hazy, orange-blue, getting sleepy in its dome over Westeros. _Maybe I’ll pull over in a bit, and we’ll eat_. The thought of spending waking hours with him dulled her spirits.

Brienne regretted meeting him, but there was no visible escape route. The two of them were probably only four hours outside of King’s Landing, and four and a half hours outside of the high intensity traffic at Valyrian University, centralized there. It was a prestigious university, bested by no other, and equal to perhaps one or two other prestigious universities. It made sense for such a conceited, spoiled-rotten jerk to be enrolled. Brienne rubbed her right eye.

She, herself, was there on an athletic scholarship: basketball. Her grades remained pretty above average, but weren’t enough to score her an education that cost roughly fifty thousand gold dragon notes per year. Basketball had done that for her. Brienne glanced behind her, eyeing Jaime’s disheveled, sleeping form with some disdain. _I’ll have to look at the dorms again. Or maybe the cafeteria. One of them is bound to be named after his father._

Despite her full-ride scholarship, there were unforeseen costs. Outside expenses added up quickly at such an expensive university with so many tenured professors; even food could cost a leg and an arm when you had no money. So she’d been doing odd jobs off and on since freshman year and through the summer. She’d liked them, for the most part, and that was probably why she had been so cocky. _How bad can he be, right?_ She’d said when she’d found the ad, three months old and unclaimed. The thousand-dragon loot had driven all suspicion far, far from her mind.

A couple months into her freshman year, she’d helped move boxes for her basketball captain. Renly had been moving from the western dorms into an apartment. He’d needed her strength and alacrity. Between Brienne, Renly, and his uppity friend, Loras, they’d managed to move him into his new apartment before dinner… Brienne frowned. She didn’t want to think about those times. During Christmas break of the previous year, she’d done her Bio professor a favor and babysat her up-and-coming high school freshman while said professor went to a conference out of town, in the north. The girl’s other siblings had gone to stay with some relatives, while Brienne had promised to chaperone Arya during the week of national championships. Brienne had taken to Arya—she reminded Brienne a lot of herself—though the young girl was a good deal fierier, more mischievous, and wordlessly prettier. The two had ended up getting into a lot of trouble themselves; in the kitchen, at least. They’d burnt popcorn and microwaved hamburgers which were still encased in the crinkly and matted aluminum foil. They’d both had a good laugh about it after they’d doused the meat patty in the sink.

A grunt from the backseat.

Brienne’s stomach dropped a little. She took note of the exit sign.

“Where are we?” Jaime asked flatly, sleep cluttering his voice.

“Silverhill,” said Brienne too casually. “I… I thought we’d stop in about two miles to grab a bite to eat.”

Jaime grunted again and sat up, combing his hair with his fingers twice ( _good as new_ , Brienne sighed) and stretched. Brienne averted her eyes from his lean pectorals and shapely triceps. She noticed he had green bruises along his obliques and under his belly button. And now that she looked carefully, she saw a large blotch of skin under his chin beginning to color bluely. He looked like he had taken a beating.

“Like what you see?” Jaime quipped with a yawn.

Brienne rolled her eyes. “Seeing as you’re naked, looks like I’m just going to have to go through the drive-through.” She paused at a red light for some moments, awkwardly avoiding any mirrors lest she make eye contact with Narcissus. She eased into the gas as the light turned green, pulled alongside the cemented median, and switched on her blinker. It ticked obnoxiously until Brienne turned into the McDonalds parking lot. Her Honda slid into the drive-through lane and she rolled down her window.

“Welcome ta McDonalds, how kinna help ya?” said drawled a viciously unamused woman via the little intercom.

“What do you want?” Brienne asked Jaime over her shoulder.

“Three orders of the eight-piece nuggets and two milkshakes.”

“Are you joking?”

“Would one milkshake be enough for you, giant?”

Brienne returned to the intercom, repeated Jaime’s order and added the double cheeseburger meal and a cup of ice. When they rolled around to the pay window, Brienne begrudgingly paid, although Jaime offered. When they received their food, Brienne pulled away and parallel parked between a large, red Ford and a tiny, black Mini Cooper. She handed Jaime his order, glowering at him in judgment. Then she emptied half of her cup of ice into a wad of napkins. She turned somewhat awkwardly and pressed the shoddy ice pack against his side. Jaime jerked initially, taken aback by the sudden chill. But then he relaxed into the cold and put his hand over hers in order to hold it for himself. Brienne’s cheeks colored a little, but she doubted he noticed, as he was stuffing his face with fries. She removed her hand and turned off the engine.

“Look, I’m... sorry,” said Brienne, “I tend to maybe overreact. Usually I have a better head on my shoulders about these… er, types of things.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jaime said insensitively, dropping the ice onto the seat beside him. He seemed to sense that she was apologizing more out of pity than guilt.

Brienne turned to face her food, removing her fries and burgers from the thin paper bag. She took a large swig of her coke. Then she, too, felt a crisp cold. Jaime pressed one of the milkshakes to her arm without looking at her. A drop of condensation slid off of her elbow.

“I knew you were too stuck up to get one for yourself, wench,” Jaime smirked, “So I took the liberty of buying you one. Enjoy yourself for once. Your face is always scrunched up like you’re about to shit out a stone.”

Brienne chuckled and took the milkshake, taking a small sip before docking it into a cup holder. “Thanks for the genteel gesture, Jaime, but… uh, I did still pay for them.”

“Oh, _shut up_. I offered.”

“So you did.” There was a few moments pause while they indulged in the chemical oasis of fast food. The burgers tasted a little spongy but the ketchup and pickles were just right, and the fries were hot and straight out of the oil, doused in salt. Brienne watched Jaime dip a handful of fries into his milkshake.

“Hey,” Jaime started, cocking his head to the side. His hair fell down to his shoulder while he looked at her from below. His eyes were even more magnetic when they were really watching you. But she regretted her attempt to mend any sort of botched relationship; she knew that she had nothing to say to him that he could ever understand. They might as well have come from two different planets. Different solar systems. She ate a few more fries, attempting to hide the pensive scrunch of her eyebrows and the anxious gnawing of her chafed lips.

“Can I ask you a personal question?” said Jaime, rubbing his thumb along his lower lip.

 _Why not?_ She thought. “Why not?” she said.

“How the _fuck_ are your arms almost as big as mine? Can I get some pointers? I wanna grow up to be like you, wench…”

Brienne shook her head, throwing up her hands in exasperation. She buckled her seatbelt, stowed her food within reach of her prying fingertips, and stuck the key in the ignition. With a swift twist the engine revved. And died.

“Piece of shit,” Jaime breathed from behind her.

\--

The rest of the drive was uneventful, as Jaime fell into a food coma for several hours. He was startled awake by the sound of city traffic: violent horns honking, tires screeching, police sirens, the works. He talked her ear off about nothing important, and it soothed both of them for a short time. Jaime was pleased when she got lost downtown because it gave him a chance to _‘prove his worth as a man to a maiden.’_ He articulated the directions well, and they were on campus before nine.

The campus was still mostly empty, as classes had yet to start and orientation was still a week away. The buildings were as beautiful as ever in the night glow. The purple sky seemed to glisten behind the gothic buildings covered in long-tailed ivy. The clouds drifted low and lazily on the heat and the streetlights cast white halos over the large, gated archways of Valyrian University. Brienne stopped in the main Quad near a couple of frat and sorority houses because he said he wanted to meet someone there.

She’d thought she would have been glad to be rid of him, but now that she was getting ready to exorcise herself of his traumatic character, she felt somewhat lethargic. Jaime opened the backdoor and rolled out of it without any hesitation. Brienne stepped out somewhat awkwardly, unaware of how they should say goodbye to one another. They both walked down the street towards a large, bronze statue at the entrance of the main quad. It was some famous maester, standing bent under the weight of the hardened chain, which thickened into the base of the statue. At his feet, the inscription read _VALAR DOHAERIS._

“Thanks, wench, it’s been great.” Jaime opened up his wallet and pulled several hundred-notes out, slapping them casually into her huge, white palm. “And by ‘great’ I mean, let’s never do this again.”

“You have a way with words.”

Jaime slapped his baseball cap on again. “Call me if you ever get laid, so I can do him one better.”

“I think it’s likely that I’ll pass on that offer,” Brienne intoned, though swathes of pink licked down her neck like wildfire.

But Jaime was already strutting in the direction of the open quad, still shirtless, back tightening in such a way that had never appealed to her before as the moonlight hit his muscled shoulders and sank down between his shoulder blades.

“We’ll see!” he shouted without looking back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, Jaime is insufferable!
> 
> Please comment and let me hear from youuu. <3
> 
>  
> 
> Miko


	2. Courtship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime challenges Brienne's position on the team. Brienne takes him to the court.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for being so darn awesome and encouraging. I apologize in advance for this chapter being soooo long. But it felt too weird breaking it up.
> 
> Please enjoy!

_**I** ’m a masochist,_ Brienne mused, rolling her tight shoulders after the long drive. She fantasized about the cloudy deepness of her mattress, about sleeping until the rise of hot noon. _I put up with that kid for over eight hours._ She inwardly groaned, opening her eyes as she shifted to the front of the line. She stepped up to a hard-maple wood desk which ensconced three squat and bespectacled women. Grumpily perched in their rolling chairs they resembled the Three Fates, and Brienne found her polite smile twisting into a grimace as they registered her name in the computer. They confirmed her name, made her sign some papers which she reluctantly left unread, feeling pressure under the slow camel gaze of the receptionist.

The receptionist lazily slid Brienne her ID with a room code number scribbled jaggedly on a scrap of paper. She stowed it away in her pocket, nodding to the women. Behind her, her suitcases bumped noisily over the ceramic tiles. The residential hall bore white, scripted letters which read _The Dothraki Sea_ on a long ledge protruding beneath the ceiling _._ She followed vague signs, arrowed and numbered, to the west wing and then rolled her bags into a smooth, steel elevator which reminded her of an industrial oven. Fourth floor.

This was her first time in The Dothraki Sea; she’d been set up in a small building to the northwest of campus called White Tree during her freshman year. It had been converted from a rundown hotel into a fairly unglamorous dormitory, black fire escapes lacing its sides in zigzags. It had been intimate, but far too insulated, and Brienne had found it suffocating. _It was too far from the gym,_ she rationalized, as she appraised this jarringly modern building with skyway hallways and long, longitudinal windows. Her room was directly at the end of the hall. She inserted her ID into the metal slit and tapped in the proscribed code.

The door was heavy and swung open only with a shove of her shoulder. She ran her fingers through her hair in anticipation of meeting her new roommate, her breath too warm in her mouth. A dull sound of gushing water swelled from the closet-bathroom to her left and pale, ochre rays of light leaked from the crack beneath the door. Brienne suddenly became very aware of her stink. She discreetly lifted her shirt collar and took a small sniff. Her clothes smelled fairly musky, but the deodorant mitigated the rough and sticky odor of perspiration.

Room 422, however, bore an enchanting aroma of jasmine. There were two beds situated on parallel walls. On the right the slightly graying mattress was bare. _My side,_ Brienne thought. She fingered the skinny wardrobe at the foot of the bed, opened it and confirmed its emptiness. She propped the black duffle bags against it. A deep black-velvet comforter draped the girth of the bed on the right side. Zebra-striped pillows adorned its length and she noticed a laptop and a studded cellphone resting in the black folds. Two desks stood like sentries beneath the wide window at the head of the room.

Brienne lacked the stamina to fully unpack, but she yanked out a crumpled, polka dot sheet and hastily curved it around the plush edges of the mattress. She didn’t bother unfolding her blue comforter. She tossed the white-suited pillows atop it and lethargically slumped at her desk. Brienne was dimly aware that the mindless beat of the water had ceased. After several seconds, there was the small click of a door opening. _Does she know I’m here?_ Brienne hastily whipped out her cellphone, pretending to text on her tiny flip phone as the woman entered the room. Brienne hunched over the device, giving her roommate time to get dressed. There were no sounds of shock from behind her, just light shuffling.

She scrolled through her texts. At the top, Catelyn Stark. A favor for Sansa tomorrow morning. Below that:

 

 **Jaime Lannister:** _mansion at casterly rk. Lannisport. cm @ 12 on the 9 th_

 

Brienne scowled at their first pathetic exchange. She began to type.

 

 **Me:** _Arrogant bastard._

 

She stalled by deleting the text and adding embellishments.

 

 **Me:** _Arrogant, entitled, smug bastard._

 **Me:** _Rude, demanding jerk._

 **Me:** _Bottomless stomach Lannister & co. no luggage brat._

“I assume you are Brienne,” came a cool voice from behind her.

Brienne reluctantly turned, pale neck feeling thick and muscular as she snapped her phone shut. The phone was almost completely shelled beneath her clammy palm. The woman before her was surreally gorgeous in a way that was not at all ephemeral. She wore a red-silk robe which grazed her mid-thighs. Brienne could see hints of full cleavage bolstered by a black brassiere. A fluffy pink towel cocooned her hair and the smooth planes of her face were rosy from the steam. She narrowed her eyes slightly as she regarded Brienne with husky, peridot eyes.

“Yes,” Brienne said slowly, feeling her abs constrict with nervousness. “Brienne Tarth. And you are?”

The woman rested her leg on her plush bed, forming a smooth arch from the base of her buttocks to her pointed toe. She lathered lotion along her shin, then flexed her calf and it glistened as she kneaded her muscles. “Didn’t you see my name on the door?” she finally asked.

Brienne felt strangely aggressive after this great display of femininity; she imagined the bulky twist of muscles in her own thighs swelling, swelling, her shoulders like asymmetrical boulders dusted with mineral blemishes. “No, I must have missed it… On the door?” She had been too focused on the door code…

The woman pulled at the tail of her towel and sandy blond curls shook down to her shoulders. She shook it out provocatively and Brienne got the impression she’d spent a great deal of time studying swish velocity in shampoo commercials.

“It’s Cersei,” she said.

“I’m Brienne,” said Brienne.

A strange look from Cersei. “So you said.”

Brienne blushed. She stood awkwardly, fisting her hips, feeling like she should engage in small talk. But Cersei was continuing her grooming ritual, rubbing some white cream into her cheeks and then under her eyes with two fingers. Cersei glanced Brienne’s way and her face became icily still. Brienne recognized it: thinly-veiled disgust. Still, at least she had attempted to conceal it. And who could blame the woman when sunbeams seemed to radiate from her every damp pore?

“Where are you from?” asked Brienne, shifting back to sit on the desk. The edge bit into her backside like teeth pushing lightly into the flesh of a hard apple. And her body was hard, not at all the peachy softness of Cersei.

“Lannisport,” said Cersei, clipped.

“Interesting,” Brienne replied, realizing that she had picked up her phone again. “I know someone from there.”

Cersei quirked an eyebrow at this. She went to her small wardrobe and began to rummage through the various outfits. “Odd. Who do you know from there?”

“Jaime Lannister…” Brienne said, trailing off in thought. “I guess he’s new here. I drove him to King’s Landing.” She recalled his deep, sunbaked tan and his sweatpants riding low on his hips as he swaggered to her car. _And I’m… a linebacker with a tomato head._ Jaime had noted it first, the blessed sunburn.

Cersei barely stifled a chuckle against the back of her slight hand. “Oh, that was you? He had some… colorful descriptions of you.”

Brienne felt a hot blush suffuse her cheeks. _I’m gonna kill him._ “Y-You… You know him?”

Cersei did scoff this time. She pulled out a black pencil skirt, posed with it in the wardrobe mirror, and cast it on the bed. “Of course, he’s my brother. _Cersei Lannister._ You really didn’t know who you were rooming with?”

“Oh.” _Well, that’s lucky,_ Brienne thought bitterly. She could practically taste the bile rising in the back of her throat. She mentally added “insufferably good-looking sibling” to her list of things she resented about Jaime Lannister.

Cersei pried a low-cut, red blouse out of the wardrobe and grabbed the pencil skirt in the same hand. She bent gracefully to retrieve a pair of black stilettos and when she stood she began to move purposefully towards the bathroom again. Brienne tucked her chin to her chest as she watched Cersei leave the room, relief washing over in a dull wave.

“I won’t be back tonight,” Cersei said from the bathroom, “I’m going out.”

 _Thank the seven,_ Brienne thought, unfolding her blue comforter over the expanse of the bed. Cersei left the room after having delicately applied her makeup and retrieved her cellphone, hips swaying into the glass hallway beyond, mindless of the damp hair gripping her cheeks stickily. Brienne exhaled strongly, unpacked a towel from her duffle bag and rushed with eagerness towards the steamy bathroom. It was layered in immaculate porcelain, the bathtub generous in its capaciousness. Hardly any water pooled on the floor, save for a few reflective footprints. The basin was covered in organized makeup products; large cases of eye shadows and dusky bronzers ornamented its countertops.

Her hand hovered over the shower knob for a moment, before she twisted the knob for the bath and listened to the gratifying drum of the water hitting an empty tub. _Tarth,_ she thought wistfully, _I…_ _should have gone home._ Sadness was not quite the feeling. She gripped the bottom of her hooded t-shirt and pulled it up, yanking it stubbornly over her head. She threw the smelly garment down, ripped off her sports bra and pulled off her pants in a clumsy swoop. When her foot hit the hot water her whole body relaxed. She stepped in, feeling warmth lick up her calves. Brienne sat down, water flooding hungrily over her abdomen. It was only a moment before the cool sweat dripped down her neck, pooling around her dark areolas. _Anyone can be like Cersei,_ she thought, submerging her body in the heat, _In the water I’m weightless._ In the steam she imagined her face felt just as smooth, her skin just as sleek. But under the water her thighs looked unnaturally big, her feet large and squared. Toes like pebbles.

 _Who are you trying to kid?_ a voice whispered in the back of her mind. It sounded eerily like a certain man, leaning against the back of her seat, breathing cruelties in her ear. She pushed it away, ducking her head beneath the hot water. He hadn’t been the first to make her feel manly and ungainly, nor would he be the last. And his sister would not spare Brienne another patronizing stare, that was certain. _But the two of them,_ she exhaled, watching the bubbles rise, the heat pressing uncomfortably on her eyes, _the two of them are ridiculous._ Rich, popular, irresistible. _Well, I find them both quite resistible._ Snide, condescending, sexually manipulative. She pictured the Lannister-stamped port city of Lannisport and reveled in the thought of immunity to the burgeoning presence of all things Lannister in her life. The lighting in the bathroom was far too romantic for her tastes. Too russet and moody.

Brienne raised a leg, water trickling down the short blonde hairs. _I should shave,_ she thought, but she lowered her leg back into the water. The thought of shaving so soon after seeing Cersei’s baby smooth legs only made her feel hollowed out. Humiliated. An ape playing at womanhood.

 

\--

 

_It had happened faster, she knew. Bright stars, shivering jewels winking out after a nebulous rasp. Beady pupils dilating suddenly, as if imploding in a greedy gasp for death. She expected coldness, but that came later, after the tremendous flood of hotness. The smell of singed flesh, burning metal. She could’ve sworn there’d been a sound but she couldn’t quite recall it. She hadn’t heard anything except the deadening of her heartbeat as she watched a shadow tunnel through the back of the neck, ripping free of the spinal cord in a sick crack._

_Had she fabricated that sound? A sound to accompany the broken angle? She heard the echo of her roar, deep-chested in its grief. Inhuman. Selfishly, she’d listened for her name on the wind, while his body writhed with his blood currents, gushing out in slow tides, his breath like sea foam. His spittle hardly had the time to froth over gore-smeared lips. Her fault, she was clutching his face now, mannish hands gloved in his blood. She rocked him in her arms, blood pumping indolently over her arms, through the pores of her jersey. Everything smelled of salt, his like broiling copper, hers aggregating in the sweat in her pits, bitter in the hissing tears. Rocking, rocking, no, no, no, no, no, no, don’t. Don’t. The skin around the bullet wound puckered obscenely. She palmed it, but the oily fluids ran down her arms, dyed the undersides of her fingernails, slipped greasily between her thighs…_

Brienne woke, sweaty, with blood coating her upper thighs. She rested her head against the pillow, overcome with exhaustion. A slight, cramping tremor ran through her abdomen and she rubbed her swollen, tender belly. She should have known; travel often did this to her. Sitting in a car for hours, legs bent stiffly beneath her—it made her begin early. She once went horseback riding with her father for four hours over a steep mountain trail known for its flirty, kissing butterflies—she had woken up to blood in the same manner, a week early.

But blood meant something very different to her, now. It hadn’t meant death—not at first.

_A strange doll, that bobbing boy. Eyes grey and slimy. Moonfaced full to bursting. Sweet distended belly, sweet Morningstar._

Brienne cleaned herself in the bathroom, showering idly before getting dressed. She pulled on some black, cotton capris and a silvery grey t-shirt which read “VALYRIAN.” When she flipped open her phone, she was almost disappointed to see that she had only slept until 8:40. But she did not did not succumb to the chilled sheets, which seemed to absorb her, sink her in strange, wintery dreams.

The Quad extended before her as she exited The Dothraki Sea, a clean, cobblestoned expanse. Several encircled flower gardens stood languidly in the ground, petal faces drinking in the fat dew drops. The sun had a gray cast to it, and the aurulent leaves tingled in the damp morning. Shrubby trees lined the grass in militaristic precision. Hardly anyone seemed to be out so early. She saw a man with lidded eyes smoking a cigarette on the steps of Bitterbridge, a dorm which consisted of several squat, creamy cottages, each with ten or so rooms. Three blocks later she reached the adjacent dorm, Claw Isle, which loomed over the domestic spread. Four white, gothic towers penetrated the fog, encasing its own quad. Two towers on the west side and two on the east, forming a tight square. A low, one story row of rooms connected the east and west towers, mirrored by the northernmost row of rooms bridging the northeast and northwest towers. This row continued for a long time as Brienne walked, for most of the block, and then ended in the southeastern tower.

She knew that tower well because he had lived there.

A tour of freshman ambled around the block, curving like a snakehead around the corner of Claw Isle. Many of them were tall and jocular, although the nerdy, fidgety types dappled the tour group as well. Brienne meant to straighten as she walked, but found herself nearly hunchbacked as she strode past the group. No one paid any attention to her, but she caught the eye of a very short man—a dwarf, now that her gaze had lingered—with sandy-blonde curls and a sharp, peach polo shirt. He held her gaze with an amused look on his face, head tilted and smirking. Brienne pretended to be staring past him, but her boorish, thick-browed, concentrated expression undoubtedly gave her away.

After some moments, she met the Golden Tooth cafeteria, a building which seemed to be made almost entirely out of glass. She smiled knowingly to herself. She had driven through Golden Tooth after the highway took them sharply north out of Silverhill, leaving behind the sunny dock city and the Casterly Rock mansion. _Found the Lannister stamp._ But there was some modesty to it, she had to admit, the homage was mild.

When she walked through the double glass doors, she handed her ID to the uniformed lady at the cash register. She swiped along the ID’s black strip like a credit card, and returned it to Brienne. Eyeing the relatively empty cafeteria tables, Brienne located the girl with flowing, auburn tresses in a patch of sunlight. Little particles of dust floated lightly through the morning rays like glitter around Sansa’s fair profile.

Brienne hunkered down in front of Sansa, startling her. Brienne grimaced, noting the time on Sansa’s phone as she delicately placed it beside her slick cup of orange juice. 10:30.

“I was expecting you later,” Brienne said, smiling at Sansa’s growing eagerness. “More like noon.”

“You’ve always been an early riser,” Sansa blurted out, eyes the size of saucers.

Brienne grunted noncommittally.

“Mother says you’re going to show me all the hidden nooks of Valyrian University,” Sansa said.

“The nooks I know, at least,” Brienne said, shrugging. Her phone vibrated in her pocket and she took it out, flipping it open to an e-mail. She scanned it:

 

**To: varsitybasketball.lists@valyrian.edu**

**From: varsitybasketball.lists@valyrian.edu**

**CC: sclegane@valyrian.edu**

**Subject: MEET-UP TONIGHT!**

_Listen up, Stags! I hope your guts haven’t gotten too soft during the summer because winter is coming and that means the national tournament! So we have a lot to catch up on, namely your stupefying malaise. If you want all those hot cheerleaders to think you’re a sop, then go ahead and skip…_

 

“Can we go to the Fairmarket Café?”

“Of course.” Brienne skipped past all the stupid machismo and understood that she was reuniting with the rest of the team at the gym at seven in two days. She raised her eyebrows, meeting the girl’s gaze, and perceived Sansa’s suppressed energy. Sansa clutched her hands tightly under the table, pale face slightly flushed. Her eyes took on a slightly jittery look as the sunlight coasted over her bright irises. But Brienne didn’t ask her about it. Certainly if Sansa was too nervous to ask, Brienne likely didn’t want a part of it. Instead she said, “Arya decided not to come?”

Sansa scrunched up her nose, and a few locks of red hair fell forward, cupping Sansa’s slight face. “That girl wouldn’t wake up at this time if the Wildlings themselves drew her by her ankles out of bed.”

Brienne chuckled, knowing that to be true. She found Arya extremely charismatic in her own brash way, but the girl lacked discipline in every sense of the word. Except for in basketball. The girl had an incredible knack for free throws, arcing them into the hoop in beautiful half-circles—Brienne had even let a couple of them glide dramatically over her outstretched palm—she had hoped to play her again soon, perhaps in the newly refurbished Lemonwood Gym, slightly north of the Golden Tooth cafeteria.

_Catelyn had retained an awareness of time. She’d called the ambulance, sirens screeching minutes later, her own head sloshing in shock, pounding in the rhythm of heartbeats. It had been too late, she knew. She’d seen his tongue fall limply to the back of his throat within half-seconds of the shot._

“So…” Sansa started anxiously, gnawing on her lip.

Brienne realized she had drifted. “Hmm?”

“I… I need your permission,” Sansa sucked her lip under her teeth hard, holding her breath in stiff anticipation, “I want to go to a frat party.”

Brienne made a show of considering it. “No,” she said flatly.

“Why _not_?” Sansa ran her fingers through her hair in exasperation, reddened lips pouting. “ _Please,_ Brienne, if only you’d go with me—I—I wouldn’t mind a chaperone, I would _welcome_ it—”

 _I wouldn’t be caught dead at a frat party._ “Your mother would sacrifice me to R’hllor.”

“She would _not,_ she _adores_ you—”

_Shhh, the woman grasped her shoulders firmly, nails biting into her collarbone. Shhh, dear girl. Let them take him. She’d attempted to hoist her. Let them take him, Brienne. Her own name had shocked her into movement. She was aware that her hair was matted with blood, hardening in the night’s chill._

“No, she adores _you_ , her _daughter._ ” Brienne shook her head slowly, face twisting at the memory of the one frat party she had gone to the previous year, with _him_. “There’s nothing there that you would like—it’s dirty, it smells like cigarettes and puke. People pee themselves they get so drunk. You’ve just become a senior in high school. Why do you even want to go?”

Sansa had been scrunching her nose again, but at the last question her eyes alighted, glinting and bright like a clear, summer sky. She leaned forward, hands knitted together under her chin and breathed, “Because Cersei Lannister will be there.”

 

\--

 

Jaime’s eyes rolled into the back of the head, a guttural groan rolling off his tongue as his muscles clenched desperately, thirstily, pearly seed shooting into a kleenex. He felt his body weaken and he managed a shuddering breath. Sweat sheened on his torso as his member fell, flaccid, against his tight stomach. Cersei dropped the Kleenex unceremoniously on his thigh and sat up, pulling her hair over her shoulder. Months-long tension leaked from him. He felt himself calming, relaxing.

“Cersei…” he managed, a croak lodged in his throat.

“We don’t have time for the full thing,” she told him, gesturing to his exposed manhood.

“Please, Cers,” he said again, unable to fully articulate his need.

“We don’t have _time_.”

“At least let me do you.”

“I—”

“ _Please,_ Cers.” Jaime’s whiny plea sounded insufferable even to his own ears, but he saw the flicker of desire in Cersei’s narrowed eyes, the sexy tension in her eyebrows as she considered taking him inside of her. He half hardened, and she nodded, pulling him into a quick and violent kiss. She hiked up her dress and he moaned, but she hissed at his noisiness and he dutifully descended upon her, drinking in time, lapping up summers.

When Cersei finished, she fixed her dress and sauntered to the bathroom. _To remove the evidence,_ he thought with strange bitterness. Her taste still lingered on his tongue, his lips, and the ashy beginnings of his beard. He tossed the Kleenex in the wastebasket beside her desk, knowing that she would see it and remove it later. But he liked the idea of making her think of him when she was too preoccupied to think about him. He liked the idea of keeping her own her toes.

He never could, though. And he knew it would be the same every time. He imagined her bending to remove the Kleenex with a clinical expression, face stiff and indifferent as she flushed it down the toilet and then returned to her magazines. Or worse, dropping in a marked-up homework assignment over the pathetic vestiges of their half-lovemaking.

He stuffed himself back into his jeans, zipping up slowly. It had been a year since he’d seen Cersei. A _year_ of inflamed abstinence as she skirted the campus of Valyrian University, marking her proverbial territory through an internship at the governor’s office in downtown King’s Landing. She had begged him to take a leave of absence as well. _How could I bear it if you graduated before me? Where would you go? How could I do without your cock…?_ And yet, she had done just fine. For a year. While he jumped off of cliffs back at the Rock, begging his maid to make him exotic sandwiches, while he lounged on the couch, muscles twitching during televised pro-ball matches, while he burned his body up at the gym, hoping to incinerate his lust like a junkie might hope to sweat out his fix. He had come so fast and she had hardly touched him.

His father had not been pleased with his decision, but after the Aerys debacle, he had let it slide.

Jaime pinched the bridge of his nose as pressure mounted in his head. His hair fanned over the goofy, zebra-striped pillows. He liked the smell of them: jasmine. He could just barely inhale the scent over the aroma of Cersei’s body on his upper lip. He felt exhausted; he wanted to sleep deeply with his sister’s head tucked under his chin. He imagined the feel of their evening together, the sun sinking into the earth’s body. Time would mean nothing to either of them.

“You have to go now,” she told him tersely from the bathroom.

“Chill the fuck out, Cers, it’s not like we’re at home,” he said while straining his neck to look at her. She was undressing for a shower before the big frat party, and at the sight of her round, fleshy breasts he felt an electric surge shoot down his spine.

“Go now,” she said, “I have to get ready.”

He obeyed several minutes after he’d heard her footsteps recede, _Like I was made for anything else_ , he thought, rolling dramatically off of Cersei’s heightened bed. He landed on his feet with a thump and checked himself in the wardrobe mirror. _Cock in? Check._ He patted his crotch affectionately, knowing it would soften within minutes.

As he walked towards the door he heard the slight click of the heavy knob twisting and panic flared inside. _Calm down,_ he told himself, _Nothing is obvious._ The door swung open and a large, frazzled giantess hunched through the door, eyes widening as she noticed him.

He was so shocked to see her that he nearly called her by proper name. “ _Freckles?_ ” he sputtered. _Caught myself just in time._

“Lannister,” she responded gruffly, face tightening with distaste. It was almost unbearable how ugly she could be when her face was all mashed up and squinty like she’d pulled the lid off a crock of shit.

“What’re you doing here, you ugly beast?” he asked amiably, “I didn’t expect to see you so soon before the next full moon.”

“In case you hadn’t noticed, I live here,” she said, horsey teeth protruding over her lower lip, cheeks puffing up in indignation. Comical.

His face split into a grin. “I hadn’t noticed. Couldn’t be rid of me, could you?”

Brienne pushed the heavy door fully open, gesturing to a sign which said “CERSEI LANNISTER,” and, below it, “BRIENNE TARTH.” She slammed it, surely imagining his head in the frame, and crossed her arms, looking all the part of a herculean bouncer.

“Ah, _Brienne_ , that was your name, was it?” Jaime slipped his fingers into his back pocket, whipped out his maroon smartphone, and rifled through it with his thumb. “I have you in my phone as something different.” He handed to her.

She didn’t take it, but leaned into it from a distance, like she was afraid to catch an airborne disease from him. _A disease that would likely improve her general appearance_ , _completely pocked as she is._ The texted conversation read:

 

 **Me:** _mansion at casterly rk. Lannisport. cm @ 12 on the 9 th._

 **Freckles:** _Bottomless stomach Lannister & co. no luggage brat._

 

She blushed furiously, great white eyelashes batting so hysterically he worried she might take flight. He let her fumble for quite some time, convincing himself easily that it was a kindness.

“I did wonder what it meant,” Jaime drawled, “But no enlightening follow-up came.”

She didn’t say anything, just looked at the bathroom door, lock-jawed. _Did she not intend to send the text?_

“You realize that ‘no luggage brat’ is hardly an insult, don’t you? In fact, you even made me _happy._ You made me _laugh._ Are you this unsuccessful in everything you do?”

She didn’t respond and he didn’t expect her to, she was as slow as a cow with the same dead gaze and slow blink, but she soldiered past him into the room, stopping near her bed. Finding himself incredibly entertained, he leaped on top of her bed, ass-first, reveling in the squeak of the bedframe.

“What are you doing!” she shouted, pulling on his arm with a vice-like grip.

He continued to bounce.

“And _what_ is that smell?” she shook her head, “I swear it’s so humid in here like—” Brienne stopped, narrowing her eyes suspiciously. “Don’t turn my room into your personal gym, Lannister.”

Jaime almost burst out laughing at the sight of her goose neck extended in thought, buck teeth like mandibles clicking together. _I’d like to see her reach conclusions more often._

“What makes you say that, Frecks?”

“It smells all sweaty and hot, sort of brackish, like—like man sweat.” She raised her eyebrows, nodding pointedly to his bare chest. He was almost dismayed that she could look upon his nude musculature without blushing anymore, all traces of androgyny gone. Pity.

“Real familiar with the smell of men, huh?” he said, biting his lower lip in an attempt to hype up his roguishness, kicking it up a notch.

Brienne threw up her hands in an exasperated sigh, and Jaime shook out his arm where she had been gripping it. He was disappointed that she didn’t squawk. Her noises were less amusing than the caricature of her face-and-body-combo—she had a rich, thoughtful sort of voice which he would have paired with a philosopher, not with someone so constantly discomfited. And her eyes were… disturbingly striking. _A waste,_ he thought. They were icy, like water crystals, and dark, navy rings enwombed the pupils. If he looked closely at her eyes, they almost seemed to give the illusion of profundity, not vapidity.

“What would you know of men, anyways, Freckles?” he asked her, tilting his head up to look at her. Her blush had receded into the long stretch of her neck.

She turned to look at him and he faltered under her bearing, unable to detach her large, doe eyes from the air of wisdom that had settled upon her like a cloak.

“Brienne,” she said quietly. Her stance was solid, her eyes faraway. Jaime suddenly felt like an intruder. Whose memory was she pining for? Whose presence had ghosted into the room?

“Brienne, then,” he conceded.

There was a moment of silence and then she said, “I think you should go.”

He considered retorting, but he didn’t really want to. His game had ceased to amuse him, and he felt a burgeoning guilt that almost made him spew a muculent apology over her gigantic flipper feet. _I would be even more disgusted with myself if I did that,_ he thought, imagining the nightmares he’d undoubtedly have that night about being courteous and chivalrous, and, worst of all, apologetic, but he bounced off of her bed anyway.

_He remembered those naked, white feet, pale in the starched moonlight, cold as winter._

He grinned, mussed his hair, and vacated the room.

When he walked out into the hallway, he saw a lovely young girl sitting against the opposite wall, knees pulled up under her chin as she played on her cellphone. She had auburn hair pouring over her shoulder in gentle waves and large, innocent eyes. Eyes even more innocent than the Beast’s, somehow. When she looked up at him, he swore that she was too young to be at university, too young to be a freshman, even. But it was laughable to even consider the possibility that she could be related to Brienne.

And yet here she sat. He flashed her his award-winning grin: all teeth and soft eyes, but she only grimaced slightly and returned to her game of Angry Birds.

 _Ah,_ he thought, _So even the young ones know._

 

\--

 

Jaime laid on his bed with his ankles crossed, tossing popcorn into his mouth, saying, “Swish!” every time a piece landed artfully in the warm cleft of his tongue. He tossed one up, challenging himself by pitching it up halfway to the ceiling. He wiggled around on the bed, feeling the sheets bunch up beneath him, and the popcorn ricocheted off his front teeth, falling into his mouth. “Rebound!” he hollered.

“Shut up, Jaime,” his roommate said, a smile in the corners of his mouth. He lay on his bed as well, right ankle resting on the left knee as he turned a page with a middle finger. He had jaw-length, dark, black hair and a rich, olive complexion. Jaime never noticed him shaving, but he maintained a thin, tailored beard. He wore a crimson, collared shirt, unbuttoned under his pectorals and indigo-blue jeans. He was as lusty as they came and bled sex appeal, much to Jaime’s chagrin, with a Dornish accent that gave women whiplash.

He hated that Oberyn brought women over, it made him feel oddly vulnerable and excluded. Plus, it lacked propriety. So, he’d asked him to please stop in his best grown-up voice. Oberyn had shot him that frustrating half-smile, making no promises, but since the beginning of the year he had restrained himself. Now, he was reading a book about late-century politicking in Pentos, occasionally emitting a deep purr of satisfaction. Or maybe amusement. Of course, the fact that Oberyn was secretly a huge dork only gave him access to a greater pool of hearts to break.

Jaime had brushed his teeth and scrubbed his face as soon as he entered the room, wiping his body off partially with a soapy washrag, in order to avoid any prying questions. If anyone could scent a woman on him, it would be Oberyn, masked as he was with the aroma of women. His roommate would notice, eventually, that Jaime paid little attention to the beauties that sauntered into their room, scantily clad. Jaime, after all, was better trained than a hound. He had extremely regular and intense cycles of desire which followed a schedule that Cersei had internalized for sexual meet-ups during the school year. He found himself growing more irritable, more snarky when the time drew near for him to part her legs. He was like a wound spring, a shooter, and Cersei was his pusher.

It had been even worse for him over the summer. He had been an absolute wreck, all nerves, feeling both lethargic and inattentive. Once, he had googled the symptoms on his phone. The web had informed him that he was likely going through menopause. He had laughed, then. A harsh, ironic laugh. _Other half, indeed._

He needed Cersei. He needed to smell her, to feel her, to see her, to absorb the way gravity pulled fruitlessly at her breasts, the lightening of her hair in the summer, the darkening of her nether hair during her seasons of thirst for him…

He checked his phone: 6:00. _Finally,_ he thought. Jaime had sent out an e-mail to the basketball team a few days prior, ushering them to the gym for a bit of scrimmaging. The coach had wanted to dish out some information about training regimens—if he bothered to show up—and, so Jaime had set up a time. The meeting would likely be informal and quick; school would start after the weekend, and that’s when the rest of the team would commence initiation. Or boot camp, as Clegane liked to call it.

Aerys had been the captain of the team when Jaime had first tried out. He was a good-looking guy and initially very reserved. Jaime’s family name had always pissed Aerys off, that much was evident, but Jaime was a basketball prodigy in his own right. Despite the Lannister usurpation of the Targaryens in the business world, he couldn’t reasonably disallow Jaime from playing varsity basketball at Valyrian University. Still, the team witnessed Aerys’s mercurial disposition soon enough; the Stags experienced such violent extremes that morale plummeted. It had been one of the worst seasons in the recent history of the university.

Tywin’s silent satisfaction at this had only propelled Jaime, of course.

Aerys never possessed the raw talent that Jaime had, but he was ruthless in his game tactics, and Jaime had had the athletic intuition; he’d been his right-hand man. Aerys had dubbed him Co-Captain. Titles had meant shit to Jaime, who’d had titles his whole life and nothing to show for it, but the title had ostracized him from the team, which was already festering with Aerys’s showiness, his reclusiveness, his distrust and disregard for game rules. He played very close to the foul line, orchestrating accidental knee fractures, chipped teeth… and his cold charm had both pissed off and unnerved people equally. But, save for Jaime’s early season, the man won games. Sports journalists had called him “the King.” He had brought fire to the collegiate world.

 _They all forget how much they hated him,_ Jaime thought, popping another piece of popcorn up and missing it completely.

Of course, after the incident, he remembered seeing the naked feet, white as sugar, some smartass had started calling him the Kingslayer. And occasionally idiots get their way. The name had branded him; they’d forgotten his history before it, and even Jaime knew that there would be nothing after it.

After he’d left Aerys hanging—Jaime laughed inwardly at that—he’d become sole captain of the Stags. But his team all looked at him with cruel curiosity at the murderer in his cage. Legalism hadn’t set him free, after all. When he’d requested a yearlong leave of absence, his father only protested enough to remind Jaime that he would never live up to his expectations, anyone’s expectations of him. He hadn’t seem disappointed with him, or proud for that matter, regretful, yes, but not in a sad way. In a cinched way with tight lips, silently despising the sloppiness of it, but not the moral dubiousness.

So, going home, some hotshot underclassmen had taken his place. He recognized him, the dead governor’s youngest son. Renly Baratheon. He’d not been short of charm or talent. The team had moved on easily past the incident, past him, like a sweat-lubed fish slipping out of a fist back into the water. But the poor bastard had gotten himself shot in the spring, after a successful season, at that. And so Jaime had sent the e-mail.

He was lucky to have Oberyn as a roommate. The man had the cunning of a viper, but it was directed, never misplaced. He had hardly reacted to Aery’s death; in so few words he had glossed over it. At least, he had on the surface. And when Jaime had brazenly asked him to be his roommate after a year of no contact, Oberyn had said in his smooth accent, _‘Kingslayer’ is already on the door._ He would not go so far as to say Oberyn was a good man—there was something poisonous about him—but he could not bear living with a _good_ man.

Perhaps that’s why he ached to torment the ugly wench so much, unbruised honor and all that.

Jaime, finishing his popcorn, stood from his bed and stretched, backing cracking deliciously. He shook himself out, blood pumping hot for basketball. He went to put on a t-shirt, but then found it too ironic that he had walked around campus half-naked all day, only to put on clothes to play ball.

 _Interesting that I respond to both liberty and imprisonment with clotheslessness._ Jaime thought of Cersei’s gloss-lacquered mouth.

“I’m going out to go practice with the boys,” Jaime said, turning to leave.

Oberyn’s foot tilted downwards in acknowledgement of the statement.

 

\--

 

The Red Waste was the primary dormitory for international students, a perfect place for Jaime to lay low from the frats, though not from the foreigners. Its interior walls were painted a magnificent carmine, making it easily the most carnal of the dormitories at Valyrian University. The baseboards wrapped all around the principal building in a sandy-crème color, and the ceilings were high, often embellished with chandeliers. Darkwood stairs absorbed the lighting, enhancing the red earthiness of the dorm. He wondered if his affinity for it was due to its oppositeness—Casterly Rock was practically composed of windows, bursting from the seams with sunlight, open archways, glass sliding doors. _We have nothing to hide,_ he could almost hear his father say.

Of course, his initial motivation was due to its proximity to Pinkmaiden, a sorority house in which Cersei planned on residing within the next two months. The plan had been stupid, in retrospect. There was no way he could even cross the premises without arousing some sort of unwanted attention. But proximity meant _something_ to him. He couldn’t help it if it did.

The daylight was always shocking to him, beating him with whiteness. Sucking away his red shell, he reverted back to the Kingslayer. Jaime bent to check his shoelaces, then began to jog. The Red Waste was situated a couple miles south of campus, and the Lemonwood Gym just north of the main quad. He liked to jog to the gym to loosen up his muscles, and, on this path, hardly anyone paid any attention to him. He was just another community runner. His muscles tightened pleasantly as he passed Mistwood, and then, some blocks later, the Longbow Cafeteria. He approached the gym twenty minutes later, the thrum of his heartbeat in his ears.

He swiped his ID and entered, feeling the chilling breath of the air conditioning on his back. He nodded to the student sitting at the front desk, who reciprocated the action, strode past the line of freshly broken-in ellipticals mounted by girls in yoga pants, and proceeded to the back of the gym. He pushed past the white set of double doors and felt his mind still. He was back on the court, freshly gleaming, immaculate and without a scuff. The bleachers sat tucked in against the far wall. The place had changed but it had retained the stench of Aerys. _Aerys can try to fuck up my game if he wants,_ Jaime thought with a smirk.

He saw the towering Coach Clegane and waved, but the coach didn’t see him. He was talking with someone else. A tall, blonde boy with a smattering of freckles on his— _Oh,_ Jaime thought, _Oh, for fuck’s sake._ Clegane noticed Jaime the moment his smirk melted off his face, as Brienne was glaring holes through his head. Next to the coach she looked like a nervous little school girl.

“I see you got lost on your way to the costume party,” Jaime started, leaning on one hip, looking up slightly to meet her eyes.

“Actually, I’m here on scholarship, _Kingslayer,_ ” Brienne spat, lip curling into a grisly scowl.

Jaime rolled with the punch. “Oh, picked up a new nickname, have we?”

“It’s not so new as you let on,” she said, reigning in her disgust.

“And who told you about this riveting new chapter of my life?” Jaime drawled, shaking the hair out of his face with a brusque flip.

Brienne hesitated, glancing at a far hoop. “It was highly publicized, I just never realized it was _you_.”

Jaime narrowed his eyes. _Ah,_ he realized, _The young girl outside of Cersei’s room._ “Well, I won’t bother worrying about how well we’ll get along, seeing as you’re not playing on our team.”

“Shut your gob, Lannister!” Clegane suddenly shouted over the ridiculous repartee. “You heard the girl, she’s here on scholarship. While you were taking a long piss over the cliffs, Tarth helped us almost cinch the title, no thanks to those sorry dandies you call teammates.” His growl was intimidating, scarred face leering with pure threat, but Jaime was unconvinced by his speech. After all, Clegane was known for his deep indifference towards the Stags, disillusioned by college basketball for some years. He was often well into his drink for large games, white globs of spittle shining in his damp beard, barking profane orders that went largely ignored. Still, he had his strokes of brilliance.

And Jaime was sure that Brienne wasn’t one of them.

“Well,” said Jaime, “She looks so manly I doubt anyone would ever question it.”

Brienne blushed furiously but didn’t rise to the bait. She was distinctly aware of her superior’s presence, now, and she wouldn’t belittle herself in front of him.

This only annoyed Jaime further. He yanked her by her jersey, pulling her close to him. He vaguely registered being shocked by the brush of her thinly-clothed nipple against his forearm.

“I’m the captain,” Jaime said quietly, “Not Renly. If you want to play varsity, you’ve got to play _me_ for it.” She had bristled at Renly’s name, her breathing had stopped for several seconds before his fist began to swell with the oceanic heaving of her chest.

“Don’t be stupid, Lannister,” Coach Clegane growled. “We haven’t got all damn day!”

“He’s right,” someone said in a strangled voice behind him. He recognized without turning that it was Loras. “Renly accepted her… she played anyone with a dissenting opinion one-on-one and still managed to come out on top. He wanted her on the team.”

 _Stupid, lovesick boy_ , Jaime thought. Of course he’d heard about the two of them. Somehow he hadn’t managed to hear about Brienne, unless—the _Beauty…_? _No._ He listened to shoes squeaking as the rest of the men entered the gym. And Clegane was right, he was wasting time. Brienne’s eyes looked into his, unmoving and cold. Someone has passed between them yet again, like a thin specter condensing in their shared breath. This time, Jaime had an inkling of who it was. He released her jersey. He had nothing more to say on the matter.

He didn’t have to.

“Fine,” she said quietly. So quietly that it seemed to reverberate around the gym, stick to his skin, more threatening in her quietness than in her feral snarling. Jaime smiled.

“Bloody morons, the lot of yeh,” Clegane muttered, retreating. “The rest of you gather up while those idiots resolve their lovers’ spat! Let’s talk about how I’m gonna bleed you dry this season…”

Loras dribbled the ball a couple of times before tossing it to Jaime. He turned on his heel and followed the coach, sulky after the brief mention of their former captain. Jaime dribbled it a couple of times between them, bouncing it once on Brienne’s foot—just to annoy her—but she stood like a stone wall before him.

“Let’s say first to five points,” Jaime suggested, palming the ball.

“Would you make it so easy?” said Brienne.

Jaime laughed, making his way to the center of the court. She was close behind him, squatting down in a jumping position, as if to ready herself for tip-off. He passed her the ball. She passed it back. They stood facing each other, hard.

“You’ll need every advantage you can get, wench,” he told her.

“I’d rather have you completely disarmed,” she said, “Without any excuses as to why you lost to a woman.”

 _Is that what you are?_ “I’m afraid I already have an arsenal of those,” he said breezily, “Namely, I’m out of shape and haven’t touched a ball in a year. I’m shorter than you, and my face is less distracting than yours.” Still, he dribbled the ball, bending into a squat.

“First to five,” she confirmed.

He slipped away from her with no effort, spinning in a half circle and sprinting to her weaker side—her left—dashing down the court with the ball bouncing low beneath his fingertips. It was only moments before he heard her thudding footsteps and then saw her peripherally. _She’s fast. It’s those Godzilla legs!_ He stopped abruptly, interrupting her momentum and swirled around her, breaking right this time. He hadn’t seen her fingers, but he noticed immediately when the ball ceased to make contact with his palm. Her long fingers had scooped the ball deftly from beneath his hand.

She thundered down the court, keeping the ball close to her hip, and he made it to the hoop before her. She was taller than him, but not by much, and she was forced to back into him as he surrounded her, making feints for the ball. Her dribbling technique was sound, and she switched hands back and forth too rapidly for him to make a clumsy swipe. He grunted as her ass bludgeoned his crotch, and he countered by sliding his leg to the side of her long own pale leg. He left her back exposed and as he did, she turned for a jump shot.

It was his turn to steal. He slammed it down as soon as it left her palm, fluidly intercepting it again mid-bounce as he ran down the court. The wench was there, of course, coming up on his right. He switched to his left hand and like lightning, her left hand shot out to steal the ball. Reflexively, he’d dribbled it between his legs— _but, seven hells, her reach is long_ —and as she attempted to corner him, he jumped, twisting slightly away from her reach. He pitched the ball in a perfect arc and waited for it— _there, the blessed swish._

“First blood,” he said, smiling in a self-satisfied way, licking the sweat from his upper lip.

“Savor it,” she said flatly.

It was her turn to dribble it down the court now. He squared off with her, arms outstretched, and his fingers brushed her abdomen as she curled away from his radial purview. She ran furiously towards the hoop, and Jaime barely managed to block her upper thigh as she shot a graceful rebound. She tossed her head back, taking a deep breath. Her long, milky neck was as thick and smooth as taffy.

The ball was his and the relay continued in much the same manner with the two of them faking rights and lefts with legs outstretched and groins exposed, chests heaving, sweat dripping down the bases of their skulls. Jaime finally made a break, attempting the daring move of shooting the ball between the fleshy pillars of her legs. It was successful—she jumped in front of him, but she was too slow as the ball sank through the net. He landed a mere second before she did, glimpsing the pale freckles coating her abdomen.

There was hardly a moment’s rest as they began anew, and he noticed the fierce determination in her eyes, the mechanical pumping of her legs as she gained speed. He chanced a shot with his left hand and palmed the ball, but she reclaimed it within seconds. They twisted and writhed around each other, her breath hot in his ear, Jaime’s sweat dripping down the back of her thigh, but the moment came quickly when she ducked around him and he could only watch the soft follow-through of her wrist as the basketball seemed to hang, suspended over the court. It went into the net without skimming the rim, gathering force, like the moment right as a pebble first kisses the water.

 _Swish,_ Jaime thought dully. Brienne had made a perfect three-pointer. She had won.

“You feel better now that yeh’ve embarrassed yerself, dipshit?” Coach called from the edge of the gym.

He wondered that he didn’t feel more embarrassed—he suspected that would come later—but his body ached with the pleasure of a well-played game, played with skill and fairness. He hadn’t played such a game in a long time. He reeked of musk. Sweat dribbled into his ear, making it itch. He went to raise his shirt, in order to wipe his face, only to remember he wasn’t wearing one.

Jaime’s eyes followed Brienne, thinking of the pure, lean muscle in her sinewy limbs. She walked achingly slowly, almost as if with a limp, but he could not recall hurting her. He rested his hands on his hips, curious. As she continued down the court, she straightened, hands placed slightly below the kidneys, stabilizing herself.

Realization dawned on him. It was the same posture his mother would assume, belly ripe with child, grunting with discomfort as she walked about the Rock. _The cow beat me with a belly full of blood,_ he thought. And all of his excuses died on his lips. He wasn’t quite sure if it was the idle thought of Joanna, humming on a porch swing, or the short breaths before her death that made Jaime want to play her again, trapped in a mesmerized court waltz. Perhaps it was her drive. He had felt her body, listened to her heart: all raw power, power strumming her willowy muscles. He knew now, she had been in love with Renly. The boy was dead, but she had come back from the game of grief, antlers down and charging. Jaime was jealous, and desperate to know. He wasn’t fully aware of why, just thought of his mother’s long, rattling breath. _Beast,_ he thought, _how’d you manage it?_

That night, Jaime dreamed fitfully of flies. They vibrated in his veins, flew, heavy with saliva, up his throat. Gagging on flies, flies in his nose. Huge, black horseflies with hairy bodies and dead-gem eyes, weaving jaggedly in his hair. A figure sat on a chair in a room, still, arms immovable on the arm rests. He groped the face, brushing flies off of the forehead, and then the nose. The flies buzzed off of the face and then landed on Jaime’s arm. He squirmed, but continued to paw the face, feeling the nose and the cheeks. In one final sweep he saw the portrait, flailing at the flies in his ears. Cersei’s face, looked up at him, ringed with black insects. Her eyes brushed closed. _I want you,_ she said. Her breasts emerged from the teeming blanket of insects, lactating. He raised his head to brush the liquid away, but realized, _no,_ maggots were clinging to the pebbled tips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think??
> 
> Thank you for your perseverance!
> 
>  
> 
> Miko


	3. The First and Second Lesson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catelyn pressures Brienne to take Sansa to the party. Jaime and Brienne have words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UMMMM, so this chapter should really be called "Jaime is a Jerk, Part Three." He IS. But I proooomise there's a silver lining. This chapter is kinda like popping a zit. :D And the next chapter is gonna be the Frat Party. Yaaay(?)!

It had been two weeks since The Thrashing, as Brienne was terming her close victory over Jaime Lannister. It was nothing to brag about, really, but it flooded her insides with more warmth than any bitter wine. Maybe she’d given up on impressing men the way that she thought they liked—with beauty and maddening unavailability—but she’d impress men in the only other way that they recognized: with power and dominance. Cool-headed dominance on the court made her feel more nakedly sexy and capable than anything else.

She thought about the match more often than she assumed _he_ did, at odd times, instances completely irrelevant to Jaime Lannister. One week ago, at the Fairmarket Café, she’d put her dumpy backpack down beside her on the ceramic-tiled floor to fish for her wallet. A young man had run past, yanking the backpack over his shoulder in one smooth swoop, and she’d stuck out her giant foot, tripping him and sending him, arms windmilling, headlong into a couple’s shared apple tart. The act had been more clumsy than suave, but as she reclaimed her pack and retrieved her coffee from the barista, his coal black eyes had sparked with admiration. She thought of Jaime Lannister, then, how she had palmed the ball from right under his taut fingers, and he had sprinted for a half a second in dumb unawareness.

Then, only four days ago, she’d laced up for a jog on a gray, misty morning, only to sink knee-deep into a freezing mud puddle smack dab in the middle of the courtyard. She’d extricated herself from the cold sludge whilst holding her breath, kicked globs of muddy loogies off her sneakers, and resumed her jog. She’d thought of him then, too.

And it had only been _yesterday_ when Brienne had been lounging on her bed, reading old biology notes, when Cersei had come out from the shower naked as her nameday. Brienne had exclaimed something, felt her face burn crimson, and had shielded her eyes with a fan of old biology homework. Cersei side-eyed her as she ambulated around the room, toweling her hair, and applying the usual lotions. Brienne recognized it for what it was: a test of lesbianism.

She was used to these sorts of initiations, especially from men, and also understood that her extreme bashfulness was open to many wild interpretations. It made her feel oddly exposed to the male gaze, like she’d forgotten she’d draped herself in something diaphanous, something that laid everything bare.  But she calmed herself by remembering the look on Jaime’s face after she’d smoothly outmaneuvered him on the court. He’d looked at her with a distant, adulatory smile. Brienne was sure that if he had seen that expression through her eyes, he would have pissed himself with embarrassment.

The thought gave her a shiver of glee. And the memory of the match made for an impenetrable mental sanctuary from the twins. The two were _just_ indifferent enough to her to make her doubt her observations of them. But then something else would happen, like the texts she’d received from Jaime that very morning:

 

**Lannister Brat:** _rematch when im in shap freckls_

**Lannister Brat:** _shape._

She had not deigned to reply to someone she believed to be a reincarnated diaper. But after several hours had passed, he sent another.

 

**Lannister Brat:** _also herd ur lez. congrats on finally figuring thigns out_

**Lannister Brat:** _*thinnsg_

**Lannister Brat:** _fuck lol *things_

Brienne stared at the message with intense distaste.

 

**Me:** _You “heard” that, huh. Did Cersei tell you that she had no clothes on for twenty minutes straight? I think you’d blush too._

 

A long pause. Brienne switched the phone to her left hand so that she could scratch a mounting bite on her jaw.

 

**Lannister Brat:** _she sure did mention that. sooo fucking embarrassing. im blushing so fucking hardcore rite now. she’s usually all insecure, lik hunchbacked & prudish. even wen women look at her her face gets all scrunchd up & neanderthal._

**Lannister Brat:** _shes weirdly judgmental about things she doesnt kno anything about & always looks down on ppl bc she thinks shes the fuckin moral standard. like, it pains her to b around laypeople. so her being comfortable with her body—wow! im not sure what got into her. that’s really fuckin weird & i apologize dude_

She seethed with both anger and misery.

**Me:** _You’re a piece of shit._

She never really said things like that, never let them know that they hurt her. But he already knew that he was hurting her. He was hurting her like he wanted something from her, but she didn’t know what.

**Lannister Brat:** _yepp._

**Lannister Brat:** _u seem surprised._

 

 _What the hell?_ Brienne thought, taken aback by his change in tone.

 

**Me:** _You have the nerve to play the victim right now? After all the awful things you just said?_

**Lannister Brat:** _oops. i thought that we were just telling the truth here. getting 2 know eachother._

**Me:** _Getting to know you is the last thing I want to do. I would rather go on a lunch date with a plague of locusts._

 

There was a moment of silence. Then her phone vibrated in her hand.

 

**Lannister Brat:** _ok ur standards are pretty high._

**Lannister Brat:** _anyway i told Cers that ur not into her._

**Lannister Brat:** _cuz i see how u watch me._

 

She retorted with criminal ease.

**Me:** _With alarm and pity? You’ve got this big dopey grin on your face whenever you dribble the ball, like you’re so surprised and happy it’s still there when you look down. And you’re that asshole that never passes to anybody even though you are the worst player. How the hell did you make it on this TEAM, let alone make captain?_

**Me:** _Renly was a real captain. The only reason you stood a chance was because someone shot him in the throat._

She waited some time, lips so pinched in irritation that when she finally relaxed, they were slightly swollen. It didn’t seem like he was going to reply. A tremor of dread flitted through her belly. She could be courageous over the phone, when she wasn’t looking into his sardonic green eyes, when she wasn’t drenched by his musky swell of pheromones, and, most importantly, when she wasn’t in public. She could only imagine how he’d look at her when he saw her next, what he’d say. How he’d hurt her. And she—she was never good at these things—hurting people while looking at them. No matter how much she thought they deserved it.

_“Brienne,” he breathed, wrapping his burly arms around her back. His bristly face tickled her neck when he kissed her there. “The Beauty…” he sighed out, so quietly that she almost missed it. The words had slipped in and out, between her nervous breaths. She’d only heard it because her heart had stopped when he sighed her name. But now she knew. Something was wrong. She shrugged him off her and, turning to look at him, read the uneasy guilt all over his face._

_“It was extra,” he’d later say, “For saying the name while your clothes were coming off.”_

Without thinking she found herself spitefully punching flat cellphone keys with an ardor that made the buttons stick. Jaime’s listed name now registered in her phone as ‘The Kingslayer.’

 

\--

 

“She’s told me all about the party,” Catelyn said flatly, watching Brienne squirm pathetically for minutes after the small talk had fizzled down to silence. “And she told me all about how you would not permit it. Thinking I would gut you, perhaps.”

Brienne’s face flushed. “No, I mean, not exactly Professor Stark. I only meant—”

“I know perfectly well what you meant,” Catelyn interrupted, “And I generally agree with your original assessment. Had it been anyone else who was ‘chaperoning’ my daughter, I would have been in complete agreement.”

The pair of women sat in Professor Stark’s vast biology laboratory. Like The Dothraki Sea dormitories, the lab space was outfitted in primarily glass, giving it an open, shimmery look. The sunlight illuminated the swirls of dust particles circling through the air as the overhead fan sliced the air into thick billows. The bright lab was much improved from Catelyn’s previous lab, buried under eight feet of concrete, in the basement of the Biological Sciences Building. She sat near her microscope, large, blue eyes peering sharply into the eyepiece. Her hand frequently reached for her navy blue mug of steaming coffee, but she rarely drank from it.

Catelyn Stark was a particularly shrewd woman, whose glance could take the measure of you in an instant. Over a white lab coat dangled a dark auburn braid frazzled with grey. In her breast pocket she carried three navy blue ballpoint pens and three red ballpoint pens. She was obsessive about certain things, things such as how many pens she carried in her breast pocket, and how far away the microscopes sat from one another. Her rigid idiosyncrasies fashioned her into a woman that often could not be budged.

Brienne sincerely hoped that the frat party was one of those things on which she refused to budge.

“Yes, about the party,” Brienne began awkwardly, “I feel that it’s… I don’t know, inappropriate for someone underage to attend. Even with me. I mean—I know we have established some, I dunno, _trust_ between us since the accident, but—”

Catelyn leaned in a bit closer to her scope and adjusted the illuminated slide, which, as far as Brienne could tell, was utterly bare. “Well, she wouldn’t be allowed to cavort with any young men, of course not.”

“Of course not,” Brienne agreed.

“And you, of course, drink minimally,” said Catelyn. She had a way of pointedly ignoring Brienne’s nervousness. Sometimes it was refreshing, like the long stretch after sleeping. Sometimes it was a slow death by quicksand.

“Yes,” she responded, dreading the way Catelyn was leading the conversation. “You’re not thinking of… granting this request, are you, Professor Stark?”

Catelyn grimaced and fidgeted again with her mug. “I suppose I am considering it. She claims she wants to meet a certain Cersei Lannister. I’m told that Sansa has an interest in business.”

Catelyn cast a glance at Brienne, quickly taking in her expression of utter doubt. “Of course, I think it has more to do with _fashion._ She’s quite intent. I know of Miss Lannister, of course. Though, in a different light than Sansa; I see her as Senator Tywin’s daughter. He, frankly, is a man not to be trifled with. Eddard always—well, whatever happened is long past—but it could be a good connection for her. She has not taken to the sciences. As you can imagine, I feel somewhat unequipped.”

“You think that Sansa is interested in politics?” Brienne asked dubiously.

“Don’t be silly.” Catelyn sipped her coffee and then returned her hand to the fine focus dial. “Surely you know that Miss Lannister is also a model, for all of those expensive designers.” Professor Stark flapped her hand dismissively at this.

Brienne had not known that, but her skin suddenly felt too tight over her skull. _Cersei is a model?_ She thought. And: _It’s just impossible that the father of someone as ridiculous as Jaime Lannister can be a senator in Westeros._ But a brush of unease raised hair on her arms.

“Though I think Miss Cersei is… _ambitious_ in her way, I think she aspires to too much,” Catelyn pursed her lips, “She has certainly proved herself too… risqué for the public life.”

Brienne pinched the bridge of her nose, understanding Professor Stark’s meaning: her modeling career had already been too scandalous, perhaps only in the sense that Cersei had been too sexy, too desirable. Sometimes all it took was a man looking at you too long, and everything was over for you.

_Brienne the Beauty. It was just a name that they said, just a name with no power, she’d thought. But then he’d said it, too, whispered it with his eyes closed, bound her by it, skin to skin._

Catelyn was saying that it would be impossible for Cersei to rebound into a political career without unearthing a long trail of nepotism.

Catelyn called over a bumbling young man with a mess of dark curls from the back of the room that Brienne had failed to even notice. “Podrick, my dear, would you please pop this in the microwave for me? I’m afraid it’s too chilly.” She did not wait for him to bob his head in assent. “Don’t worry, I pay him for these trifles,” she said to Brienne, though Brienne had not said anything.

Brienne found herself wondering if Catelyn, like Jaime, thought Brienne snooty and moralistic. But then she dismissed the idea as ridiculous. She wouldn’t let Jaime turn her basic expectation of courtesy into vicious moralism. _It’s okay to be myself. It’s okay to try to be a good person._ She forced herself to think these things.

“If you don’t approve of Cersei’s ambitions, let alone her family’s, why would you consent to Sansa going to the party?” Brienne said.

“Miss Lannister’s ambitions are her prerogative,” Professor Stark replied coldly, and Brienne knew there must be darker history behind her words, “But powerful people attract powerful people, and there _does_ happen to be a bright young lady that I anticipate will be a very beneficial acquaintance.”

“And who might that be?”

“This damn slide,” Professor Stark cursed, “Too translucent to be of any use.” Catelyn pushed the scope half an inch away from her, and rested her elbow on the desk. She crossed her legs as she turned to face Brienne.

In an effort to lubricate the conversation, Brienne said, “Perhaps it’s the lighting. It is a bit dusty in here, actually.”

Catelyn massaged her temples aggressively. “I’m talking about the Tyrell girl, of course. Margaery Tyrell. Yes. If you do concede to taking Sansa to that damnable party, put her in that girl’s hands for a few turns of conversation. In fact, I’d be very much in your debt if you did so.”

 _Margaery Tyrell. Renly’s old girlfriend._ This meeting had exponentially worsened.

Professor Stark’s eyes roved over Brienne’s sallow, washed-out complexion and frowned in sympathy. But she widely missed the arrowhead. “I hate frat parties as much as the next lady,” she sighed. “I would be in your debt, Brienne.”

Finding nothing else to say, Brienne said nothing, just nodded. She had not raised any walls, had not prepared herself to think of him, but the sudden indirect mention of Renly had bored open a scabbed-over wound, and the last thing she wanted right now was for her expression to twist into a grotesque cry-face, again, in front of Catelyn Stark, who had wrapped up that thick horror and locked it away in a corner just as unimpressive as Brienne’s.

She stood to leave, but Catelyn reached for her hand. Professor Stark’s hand were cold, but firm. Brienne thought she might speak of Renly. She didn’t.

“You know my late husband, Ned, was a judge,” Catelyn started, “And he had to wade through many… horrible things. He had to pass justice, you understand. He was as weary as the dead by the end of it, Brienne. I think… well, now he rests in a place where I believe there are far fewer evils.”

Brienne could tell by the skittishness of Catelyn’s eyes that that was not what she had meant to say, and suddenly understood that she had not sent Podrick out of the room to warm her coffee. But Brienne nodded once, deeply, and Catelyn released her hand and returned to the microscope.

 

\--

 

She cupped a breast, examining its small whiteness in the mirror. Her nipples, typically a redbud pink, were dark, red, and pert. She massaged the areola and winced at the sharp tenderness, and painstakingly scraped some of the flaking skin from its tip. There was a green bruise the shape of the Stormlands spreading ominously beneath her left collar bone. Brienne pulled her top down over her head, vowing to wear bras during practice, and real ones at that. She was used to the normal chafing, being an athlete. Growing up her father hadn’t even thought to have someone teach her about bras, and she’d never felt the need, being nearly flat as a board. She’d adopted the occasional camisole, but felt that they retained body heat, and were only good for winter.

Now she was playing with the big boys, the varsity men’s basketball team at Valryian University. She’d been trampled and accidentally dragged across the floor, scraped against the wall, elbowed, and chest-bumped hundreds of times. Her body was taking a beating. She had been used to being the largest girl on a team, and now she was no longer the largest or the most aggressive member, and she had different vulnerabilities than the men.

And it seemed that a couple of them were trying to force her to acknowledge her sex. One of them being Sandor Clegane. She’d seen it in his beady eyes as he watched her take hard fall after hard fall. He stood near the bleachers, arms crossed, chewing and drooling tobacco.

He’d requested to speak with her. She adjusted her shirt and splashed some water on her face, and picked up her backpack before exiting the bathroom. The immense man was waiting in the center of the court, eyes droopy with his typical, acidic apathy. She stopped so close that she had to look up at him and he, down at her. She dropped her pack beside her. They glared at each other for some time, Clegane ruminating like a cow on curd. His mandible ground the dip into mush.

Finally, he said, “So yeh’ve finally noticed, eh?” he wiped a bit of brown dribble from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. “Not so smart as yeh are pretty.”

“You’ve been setting the boys on me?” Brienne said, her tone chilly.

“Like dogs,” he chewed.

“Why?” she demanded.

“You know why.” He paused for a minute, scrutinizing the bruise along her collarbone. “Yer spoiled.”

Brienne scoffed, turning from him to grind her teeth and then turning back. “I’ve been getting _brutalized_ by my _teammates._ ”

“So yeh have, bird.” Clegane made a face of mock sympathy. “Just imagine how hard and rough it’s gonna be when yer not playing against yer _teammates._ ” He emphasized the last word in a whiny falsetto.

“Look,” he continued, “I like yeh, and yer an asset. But there’re bastards out on those courts we’ll be playin’ on. I’m one of ‘em, so I can promise there’ll be others. They’ll be dirty fighters, a lot of ‘em, and dirtier coaches, and plain filthy refs, takin’ filthy bribes. They’ll want to exploit our weakest member, and I’ve a mind to let ‘em after listening to yer _griping_.”

“I’m far from your weakest member,” Brienne said. She understood distantly that this conversation was a kindness, but couldn’t staunch her growing annoyance.

Clegane barked a laugh and a stringy lock of hair fell from underneath his baseball cap. “I know that, Tarth. Yer far from our weakest member, but those bastards don’t know that, do they? We’re gonna use yeh. Toughen you up. You were second string last year, but this year our real dainty lady-player will be our secret weapon.”

The fluorescent lights high on the gym ceiling cast a fatal glow to Coach Clegane’s pallid face. His eyes darkened in the deep shadows of his brow bones, and his grin, though meant to appear sinister, looked a little bit titillated by the thought of the strategy. He pulled off his cap and smoothed his hair, matted with sweat, back into the hair tie.

“Kingslayer!” he barked, “Get yer ass over here! Hustle!”

Jaime had been mopping his sweaty face with his shirt. He turned towards Clegane, and the look he shot Brienne was one of feigned indifference. His wet shirt stuck to his torso as he jogged towards them, and she could hardly keep her eyes from briefly roaming over his trimmed body, all the more alluring through the partial concealment of damp cloth. When she felt the need to imagine what his sticky t-shirt suggested, she looked past him, lest he catch her gaze, and waited for the coach to speak. _You’ve seen plenty of men half-naked before, Brienne. You’ve seen_ him _half-naked_. His ability to make her body all patchy and flustered only further incensed her, and she could only quench her ire by imagining that he was inbred.

Clegane grunted a greeting as Jaime neared him, then gripped him at the base of his neck. Jaime tensed only slightly. His comparative diminution and narrowed, unfocused eyes gave Brienne the distinct impression of a kitten picked up by the scruff.

Brienne startled when the coach grabbed her by the back of her t-shirt and forced her inches away from Jaime. They both must have sensed her smugness. Clegane stooped down, his face breaching an already uncomfortable proximity. The air amongst them reeked of sweat and snuff.

“I heard you lovebirds had a bit of a tiff,” said Clegane, “I would tell yeh to kiss and make up, but, as yeh know, I wouldn’t, because I don’t give a shit. If you two want to fight it out, that’s just perfect. I need yeh to be a little rough.”

“A little rough?” Jaime said flatly.

“That’s right, boy,” he breathed, tightening his grip. “That’s spelled with a G-H, not two F’s. Look it up.”

Jaime bristled. Clearly not in the mood for Clegane’s usual patronizing rhetoric.

“That’s okay,” Clegane continued, eyebrows bunched in mock sincerity, “That’s what coaches are for. To hold yer hands and wipe yer asses. Now, you may be wonderin’, _how do two_ girls _manage to man each other up?_ And yer right, it’s an utter paradox.”

Jaime shrugged out of Clegane’s grip and the coach straightened and released Brienne’s shirt, as well. “Look, I want this championship as much as you do, _Coach._ _More_ than you do. But what _exactly_ are you suggesting? She’s a woman. They’re gonna notice that. Knocking her around the court—as much as I enjoy slaying beasts—isn’t gonna ‘toughen her up’ or whatever. Not enough come game day. They’re gonna eat her for breakfast.”

“So _now_ you think I look like a woman,” Brienne snapped.

Jaime shot her an amused look. “There is some resemblance.”

Clegane interrupted the banter before Brienne could think of something witty. “I think she’s gotta be tougher than the rest of you birds if she’s gonna be effective. And not just physically. Physically, she can best most of yeh. But mentally,” he looked down at Brienne stonily, “Yer a liability. Weak as piss. They’ll run yeh through in a single game.”

Brienne felt aflame with indignation, but when she opened her mouth to retort, found that she had nothing to say. Clegane let her silence hang for several torturous moments, knowing that in the silence, torrents of uncertainty would erode her animus. Turning away from their judgment, she honed in on the white noise. Sneakers squeaked and bouncing balls drummed against the polished floors, hard grunts reverberated around a gymnasium that suddenly seemed cavernous.

She had not noticed she’d been looking at the ground until Clegane spoke. “Who better to toughen up yer head than the Kingslayer himself? You excel at breaking men, don’t yeh, boy.” Coach Clegane scratched his bearded chin. His yellow smirk bore down on Jaime. “Let’s keep the casualties to a minimum this year, eh? And maybe in return, Tarth can show yeh how to do something other than foul.”

At this the coach snorted deeply, as if preparing to hack up a phlegm ball. Then he walked away, calling for the formal end of practice. The players stirred from the locker rooms and gathered around Clegane. After a couple of minutes, the team trickled out of the gym in groups of two or three to return to campus.

Once they were alone, Jaime turned towards Brienne and looked her up and then down, slowly, pausing at her eyes. His gaze roved over her, so slowly. Like lava rolls heavily down a slope, leaving steam and ashes in its wake. He didn’t leer at her. Rather, he seemed to assess her. And yet, they both were aware that to Brienne, this intense attention was as suggestive as a kiss.

This moment, in itself, was a rebuke.

“So,” Jaime started. He ran his fingers through his damp hair and smirked. “You think I’m incompetent at this game. Perhaps I made varsity because I fucked someone. Or maybe I murdered someone.”

Brienne felt herself grimacing, even as his smirk widened. “I said no such thing.”

Jaime shrugged, but the gesture was aggressive. “You can’t have it both ways, _Brienne._ Either you think I’ve got some fucking talent, or you don’t. Do you think I have _some fucking talent, Brienne?_ ”

“Yes,” she conceded grudgingly, “Some.”

“Good. Now that I know you think I have a talent for fucking, we can move on to basketball,” he said, stepping closer to her, cutting off her flustered admonition. “I already _know_ you respect my skills. I _see_ it in your big, worshipful cow eyes. You think I’m a fucking _gift_ to this team. You already _know_ I earned my spot on this team, and you _know_ that when I’m back in shape I can wipe the floor with you.”

“You’re trying to tell _me_ what _I_ know?” Brienne growled back, calling his bluff and stepping closer. “You totally lack finesse. You spend all of your strength in the first half of the game. You’re cocky, but you’re predictable. I know where you’re going to feint before you do!”

Jaime rolled his shoulders, stepped closer. “Illusion is all part of the game, Freckles. You think you know what I’m gonna do until one day you don’t. And all you need is one chance to fuck it all up. Or one chance to score big. Finesse only gets you _so far._ ”

Brienne’s heart raced, drumming angrily against her chest. His nose was a mere two inches from hers. She watched him bite his lip, watched him drag his lip slowly under his teeth. She schooled her face in indifference. “What are you trying to say?”

He chuckled. “A lot of things. But let’s just start with lesson one.”

Jaime drew back from her and clasped his hands above his head in a leonine stretch. “You have to get used to people looking at you.”

“Looking at me.”

“You’ve gotta get used to _men_ looking at you. You’re playing _men’s_ basketball, men are gonna look at you.” Jaime quirked his eyebrows. “Sometimes you’re even gonna _want_ men to look at you, and when they look at you, you’re gonna get excited.”

Brienne scowled. “Could you possibly be _more_ obscene?”

Jaime’s eyebrows furrowed in bemusement. “I was talking about _scouts_ , silly wench. Anyways, that’s my wisdom for the day. Anything extra will cost. So, try to like, at least _pretend_ to be more confident. I know for you that’s like pretending to be small and cute. But I have faith in you. Maybe if you’re _really_ struggling, we can just skip practice and sit around and _look_ at each other. You’d bring the candles, I’d bring the poetry. However much personal attention you need, you just tell Papa, and I will willingly waste my own personal time on your bullshit. You have my number.”

Her mouth curled. She understood then, that Clegane had only called Jaime “Kingslayer” partially in jest. His words were venomous, they burned through her stomach like hot stones. And she also realized that he was pissed about her texts. _Really_ pissed. And he wasn’t going to let her get away with it. Any camaraderie she’d thought they’d shared was toxic, she realized. Maybe subconsciously she had aggrandized him, thought him misunderstood. But now she knew. Listening to any “advice” of his would be like drinking from a poisoned well.

Brienne bent to snatch her phone from her backpack pocket and flipped it open, thumb angrily pressing buttons as she looked for her contacts. Her hands trembled with rage. She could hardly operate the shitty little phone. Suddenly she threw it hard at his chest, intending to hurt him. He hissed when it made contact, but caught it when it bounced off of his chest.

She rushed him, firming her shaking hands on his shoulders, then his chest. She fisted his sweaty shirt and yanked him towards her. She tried to keep her voice from trembling, too.

“What did I e-ever do to you, Kingslayer?” and now her eyes were glazing over with tears. No, she would make him think them tears of rage. “Screw you! All you’ve ever been is cruel—”

“And you’ve been an angel, is that it?” Jaime barked. He failed to pull her fists free of his shirt, so he, in turn, snatched her to him by the collar. “You’ve been patronizing me since we’ve met!”

“ _I’ve_ been patronizing you? _You_? You self-important je—”

He shook her by her collar, cutting her off. “You judged me before you even _knew_ me, just like this whole fucking school has. Congratulations, you want a medal for reaching the same fucking conclusion everyone else has?”

Brienne dug her fingers into knuckles, but he wouldn’t budge. Tears of frustration scorched her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She slapped his hands, his knuckles, his wrists, and then beat his chest with the sides of her fists, listening distantly to the hollow thuds.  “ _You_ were the one that stood _me_ up, that day. I _waited_ for you. I waited _two hours_ for you, one in the city, and one by your gates—y-you think I’d judged you then? Would I have _waited_ for someone that I _despised_? I didn’t even know who you were back then, you arrogant prick.”

She pushed him backwards once she’d felt him releasing her collar. He stumbled backwards, nearly tripping over her backpack. She pushed him again. “What did I do to deserve assholes like you in my life? What did I do to deserve _you_?”

“Brienne,” said Jaime, after she’d pushed him a third time. “Look, I’ve just—”

She tried to push him again, more forcefully this time, but he grabbed her hands, wrestled her arms into a jerky stiffness. She yanked at his shirt, and he let her, but his hands held her wrists tight against his chest so that she wouldn’t shove him again.

“Brienne,” he said softly. “It’s okay, you can stop. Look, I’m apologizing. I’m sorry. I’m _sorry._ I get it, I’m shitty. I _know_ that.”

“ _What did I do to deserve this?_ ” she yelled, keeping the tears well at bay, but feeling them in her throat.

“Brienne, listen, maybe you didn’t mean to do anything.” The gentleness of his tone both calmed and irritated her. She felt like she was a restless horse being talked down, tamed by smooth cooing. “I thought you said some things that were _pretty shitty,_ but now I think maybe— _fuck_ —I don’t know, maybe you didn’t _mean_ to? Maybe you didn’t know _what_ you were saying.”

“What the hell are _you_ saying?” She shoved him once more, and he stumbled back, dragging her with him. They stumbled over each other’s feet and knocked heads painfully. He cursed. In an instant, all of her fiery ire died to embers, and a nauseating lethargy took its place.

“Look, maybe you’re right. Maybe I misunderstood you. Maybe I’m just an asshole expecting everyone to think I’m an asshole, and maybe I end up setting these traps for myself.” He sought her gaze, but she studiously avoided it. “But there are assholes _out there,_ Brienne. And maybe you don’t deserve it but they’re _going_ to say these things to you. So at least on the _court_ you’re gonna have to fucking toughen up and show them who’s _boss_. Maybe even one-on-one.”

Brienne knew he alluded to how she had originally made the men’s team. She’d had to best _every member_ one-on-one. And she had demolished them all. Even Jaime. A smile ghosted his lips. By the openness in his emerald eyes, she could tell he was trying to elicit a smile from her, too.

She wouldn’t be tempered so easily. “I know more about _toughening up_ then you do, Lannister. I have to be the _best_ of you in order to be your _equal_. And it’s not fair.”

“ _Nothing_ is fucking fair, Brienne!” Jaime threw his arms out and looked around at the empty gymnasium as if to gesture to the wide world. “That’s your _second_ lesson. In the game, you should know that you can’t rely on the refs, you can’t rely on your coach, and you can’t rely on _me._ It’s not about _finesse._ This is a lesson you better learn super fucking fast if you’re gonna survive in the real world.”

 _What does a Lannister know about the real world?_ Brienne thought. She looked at him once more, not knowing what expression she wore. Then she spun on her heel, grabbed her backpack, and began to walk away. After ten feet, she stopped, look up at the ceiling, then at the door. She looked at him over her shoulder.

“You said some _really shitty_ things to me because you ‘misunderstood’ me. What I was saying,” Brienne confirmed, turning back to him. Her mouth twisted bitterly. She was almost laughing. “What did I even _say?_ ”

She tried to recall the nuances of the conversation, but could barely focus. “I said you were a terrible player, but that was _after_ you laid me out, after you _flayed_ me for no damn reason! And even when I said you sucked—that wasn’t even true, you didn’t even _believe_ I meant it—you haven’t even mentioned it once.”

Jaime’s jaw clenched. He drew nearer, taking slow and deliberate steps. When he was close again he bit his lip and met her gaze. Instead of his usual devilish expression, he wore a strangely pensive one, and in that moment he seemed to have aged half a decade. Still, the weight of his eyes rankled her.

“I had a really shitty week, you said some things,” he said finally, “And you remind me of someone.”

Brienne eyed him suspiciously. She hesitated, unsure if she wanted to know. “Someone you hated?”

“No,” he shook his head. “Someone I loved. A lot.”

When Brienne didn’t say anything, he shrugged.

“She died,” he said casually, as if it was an afterthought, as if it didn’t matter one way or the other.

 _Who?_ Brienne wanted to ask. But she didn’t want to have this type of relationship with the Kingslayer, didn’t want to forgive him, had no intention of feeling as bad for him as he felt for himself.

“It was a long time ago,” Jaime said, “But you reminded me of her. When we played one-on-one that first day.”

“When I beat you,” she said.

“Yeah,” said Jaime, smirking.

“And when we first met?” she pressed.

He shrugged again, still looking at her, and she wasn’t quite blushing, but almost.

“I was mad at someone else, someone who didn’t show up that day,” he said coolly, “Mad at the world. Cursing the gods and all that.”

Brienne raised her eyebrows. “And now? Do I still remind you of her?” She felt her ears heat immediately, but she maintained a chilly expression. Suddenly she didn’t want to know. Or, she did, but she didn’t want him to say it. Or, she wanted to know, but she wanted him to tell her without being asked.

Jaime’s cocked his head and narrowed his eyes, looking at her strangely. “You’re nothing like her,” he said simply.

And she didn’t know what that meant because it was not an answer.

“She used to gather up these oysters and clams and give them to me.” Jaime spoke too lightly. “And we’d open them up and look for pearls. It’s a pretty shitty gift for someone who grew up on a beach, right? But it seems like something _you_ would do, gather up oysters and clams, look for pearls, give them to someone who grew up on a beach.”

He turned to leave and she didn’t say anything, didn’t stop him. He didn’t look back at her, just walked measuredly toward the exit of the Lemonwood Gym. His footsteps echoed emptily and, like a dream, recalled her to a time of her own faraway memory: a time of belonging and of displacement, a time of crude grief. A time afloat on sapphire waters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't hate me??? Because I love you! And I promise there's a redemption arc! :D
> 
>  Let me know what you think! :3
> 
>  
> 
> Clegane for President, 2016.


	4. The Third Lesson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Frat Party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After covertly writing canon for so long, every AU I write starts to feel like crack!fic, haha. Throw 'em in college and the effect is doubled! Tragic. D; I'm just going with it, for now.
> 
> I butcher ages, geography, cultures, etc. that belong to GRRM~!
> 
> Please enjoy!

 

I know what you’ve done

I know what you’ve done

I know what you’ve done

I know what you’ve done

I know what you’ve done

I know what you’ve done

I know what you’ve done

I know what you’ve done

I know what you’ve done

   
  
---  
  
 

 

—    _“9 Missives to the Whore at Dorne”_

(Excerpt from Aerys Targaryen’s journal, addressed to Rhaella Targaryen)

 

 

 

***

 

He lounged in the grass across the street from the Pinkmaiden, baking in the stagnant air. Plump clouds docked in an unmoving sky. He picked out shapes, discovered a fat cat, and then a round bum. He glanced towards Pinkmaiden, an angular, two-story sorority house painted a deep fuchsia. A wide, white porch rail draped with damp towels framed the front of the gaudy house. He strained, attempting to read the garish flyers that varnished the pale front door. From inside the lurid house, yellow foam boards sprayed disproportionately with fat-bubble graffiti were propped up against the street windows at a slant. He could not make those words legible, either. They probably promoted the upcoming fundraiser Cersei kept mentioning. The sorority house sat at the end of the dismal line of residential eyesores known as Frat Row.

He turned away. The grass tickled his hand when he reached into his left pocket.

Jaime ran his thumb over the glossy cover of the little black flip phone. He flicked it open. Flicked it closed. It was a plastic piece of shit, just like her car. She’d thrown it at him— _hard—_ four days ago. He’d caught it, unthinkingly held on to it, pocketed it when she’d started pummeling his chest with her large, bruised fists. He remembered her wrist, all knobby and prominent, beating his sternum like a gavel. Her thick and muscled arms had been heavy against him, her eyes even heavier, stonier than a rock face. She’d sucked back her tears with a savage underbite.

He had both expected and not expected her to cry. He had _not_ expected to feel like a cockroach afterwards, invasive and creepy. He couldn’t determine if he really regretted the things he said, or if he regretted the way he’d said them _._ She’d gone rabid, flipped out on him, clung to him and beat his chest and yanked him close, as if he personified all the nasty shit that had happened to her, as if he could explain _why_. And he could, in four words: the real fucking world. Jaime felt himself getting irritated all over again. Because he knew she wasn’t going to leave it at that, wasn’t going to let him just make those kind of claims.

And here he was now, outside of Pinkmaiden with her black flip phone, trying to give her space. Or maybe he was just hiding from her emotional demands. Brienne had either failed to notice that her phone was missing, or she was intent on avoiding him. Frankly, he didn’t give a shit.

Or that’s what he kept telling himself when he kept thought of practice two days ago. During the second scrimmage of the evening, Marbrand had elegantly squared her off in a far corner of the court, had almost slapped the ball from her twice. It had been quite a sight—a picturesque standoff between the open-postured, rangy redhead and the pale, stooped wench. She had been nearly behind the hoop, feinting ineffectually, unable to circumvent him. In a last ditch effort, she’d made a jump shot, gaining almost a meter of lift. The ball had seemed ghostly as it spun off of her fingers and hit the rim, circled it like water circulates a drain.

Brienne hadn’t made the shot. But when she looked at Clegane it was with an air of defiance, daring him to leave her talent unacknowledged. Clegane had met her fierce gaze, arms crossed and silent. It seemed a full minute had passed before he’d nodded his taciturn approval. Clegane’s fire-creased eye had lingered on her with an unconvincing stoicism. It had lasted a millisecond, but rapacious pride had glinted in his black eyes.

Embarrassed by her coach’s salute, Brienne had slightly hunched her shoulders, had minimized herself. But her long, blonde lashes gave her eyes a lidded, cryptic look, and when she looked at Clegane again over her raised shoulder it was through a rosy and triumphant blush.

That look had been bashful and husky and fleeting.

But Jaime had found that glimpse of her so _raw_ and _feminine_ next to his own animalistic technique.

He was totally perplexed as to how she managed these almost supernatural transformations. She became otherworldly during the game—her limbs powerful, her lissom movements as graceful and esoteric as a dancer’s—and this evanescent version of her was totally imperceptible to him. That secret sweetness, like the hidden sweetness beneath honeysuckle petals, reminded him so much of his mother that it was almost unbearable to watch.

He’d fished the phone out of the right pocket of his dank sweatpants two days ago, when he’d heard it clunk at the bottom of the washing machine.

Jaime rolled onto his stomach and flicked the phone open again. Her screensaver was of nowhere he knew—a small, static waterfall hidden between dense clusters of trees. Jaime clumsily maneuvered the obsolete device, finding, at last her contacts. He rifled through the names, looking for his own. Where Jaime had maybe hundreds of numbers saved in his phone, Brienne had maybe three dozen. And several of them were takeout places. He found his own name under ‘The Kingslayer,’ clicked on it, and reread their conversation.

It seemed just as fucked up as the first time he’d read it. But the second read-through rendered the whole exchange especially pointless and juvenile, and only highlighted the weirdness of his relationship with Cersei. He strongly resisted the urge to peruse her other texts, already feeling indecent, and flipped it shut. With his other hand he pulled out his smartphone and scrolled for his sister’s name.

**Me:** _i have smthing i need u to pick up._

**Me:** _can u come outside?_

A slow breeze brushed through the trees, whispering, and Jaime thought of the gray sea at Casterly Rock. He thought of his mother in her long, purple night dress, toes kissed by the silvery tide. And he thought of his father, behind her, kissing the back of her head, smelling her hair, cupping her breasts. His memories of those times chipped away more every day, but he remembered that night with uncanny regularity. It disturbed him bodily to think of his father doing such a thing now.

He wondered whether or not he really missed his mother, or if he just missed the wholeness. He thought of Cersei, who’d been the last one to kiss him since the funeral. And he thought of Brienne, and who, out of her thirty-six contacts, kissed her. Then he thought of his father again, how his every eyebrow twitch threatened disinheritance, and wondered if everything would have been different if he hadn’t been born the son of a mogul, if his body had been twisted from the birth canal into the hazy plains of the Middle Class, or worse, the Working Class, if his father had not a single dragon note to his name, had never met and conquered Aerys, had possessed no inheritance to dangle, then maybe, just maybe, his father would have just grit his teeth and bore his sins, would have ceded to some grudging love inside of him for his children—the remnants of his wife’s body—that only awoke during times of blood and tears. 

But then Jaime remembered that there were _other_ things that all fathers sometimes withheld.

He chuckled at himself then, for deigning to think of fate. Oberyn frequently mocked him for his sloppy philosophy—it leaked out sometimes when he wasn’t being careful—or when he was so fucking wasted that he could hardly piss straight.

The soft breeze comically elongated the puffy bum cheeks in the sky.

**Me:** _i have class in 10 min. when can i see u?_

Jaime checked his cell on and off for four minutes.

**Me:** _i’m literally RIGHT outside_

**Me:** _i promise i will cause a big fucking scene out here if i’m late cers_

**Me:** _i’ll call tyrion and we’ll go streaking UP AND DOWN frat row_

**Me:** _and u can kiss highgarden goodbey!_

**Me:** _*goodbye lol_

\--

 

The palatial auditorium had a seating capacity of nearly twelve hundred seats. Tracks of stage lights followed the dark arch of the ceiling, illuminating the bald pate of the instructor onstage. It was an auditorium meant for guest lectures—bushytailed politicians often stopped by to promote themselves at the beginning of their doomed campaign trails—and the space easily swallowed the class of three hundred students.

Jaime still smelled faintly of grass and sun. He pulled his hair back into a tiny ponytail and tried to tune out the insufferable echo that garbled the instructor’s words.

It was an accelerated course in High Valyrian for advanced learners, a course integral to the International Business Major. Jaime demonstrated a surprising aptitude for the language’s liquidity, having picked up on a lot of Bastard Valyrian from his maid back at The Rock. She’d hailed from Astapor, and had spoken the Common Tongue only barely. He’d thought it amusing as a child, groping for concepts and images through her backwards syntax. She had cleaned the living quarters and had kept him company during his baths, and he would talk endlessly, not really grasping her lack of fluency, but needling it. She had been patient. Or, perhaps she had been something else and he had been too young to understand it. Nevertheless, before he’d realized, they had begun to operate mainly in her native tongue, singing the smooth songs sung to young children that worked the docks at Slaver’s Bay.

His father had put an immediate stop to that sort of activity. He had been displeased with Jaime’s knowledge of the “slave language” that had been passed down in Astapor after generations of ruthless colonialism. He had expected the maid to stick to “Business Valyrian,” as he termed it, not unkindly. The dynamic between Jaime and the maid was different after that, because he had suddenly understood that her presence in his life—the flowering language on his lips—was not organic. Their ‘relationship’ had been a sly alternative to concentrated study.

He hadn’t been hurt over it, nothing like that. But he had become more suspicious of the kindly figures in his life.

Jaime only noticed her enter the dusky auditorium because she did so belatedly and sat in a row even further back than he did. The dim lighting washed her out, accentuating spotty patches of freckles all over her body. She appeared lost as she scrutinized a piece of paper with her mouth hanging slightly open over a protruding row of overcrowded teeth. Jaime was distinctly reminded of a water buffalo.

Brienne settled into a chair a few rows higher than Jaime, looking much too toonish for it, and studied the sweaty man pacing the stage. He could tell by the bovine glaze of her eyes that she was not understanding a word of the High Valyrian lecture.

Jaime slid his hips forward in the seat and slid his hand into his jeans pocket, pulling out a stumpy pencil. He fingered the tip, considering. His t-shirt bunched up under his ribs as he twisted to face her. He aimed. Chucked it at her.

The eraser bounced off of her ear and into a deep crevasse between two seats. 

The big, hulking mare swiveled her head angrily in his direction. When she recognized him, a familiar range of expressions flickered across her face. Disdain, resentment, pity. She settled on frigid wariness.

Jaime chuckled at her stiffened posture and rose to crouch on his seat. Hunched over, so as not to attract attention, he took a large step over his seat back, then climbed over the next row of seats, and then next. Laughing breathily, he dropped into the seat beside her and stretched out his muscled legs.

“Don’t worry, he’s practically _blinded_ by those stage lights,” Jaime reassured her.

She sported a short, boxy t-shirt and fitted-but-stretchy jean shorts that rolled up a couple inches above the knee. Taut muscle bulged under her jeans cuffs. After a casual glance, Jaime observed that their thighs were of like thickness.

Jaime cocked his head to unabashedly study her eyes. They were large, expressive eyes, lidded by hard, straw-like lashes. Her irises were the most intense blue he’d ever seen, cerulean glass ringed with deep sapphire. It was not easy to look away. Wisps of hair fell to his fuzzy cheek and he scratched absently.

She appraised him peripherally, as if he might do something sudden, might slide a shank in her huge flank and carry off her gigantic corpse into the obscure darkness of the auditorium. He watched her pupils dilate.

“You’re so fuckin’ adorable,” Jaime grinned, tongue between his teeth. “I could just watch you blush all day.”

Brienne had not been blushing. But, predictably, her cheeks flared pink at his words. He looked away from her, giving her time to master he color, and shoved his hand between the seats, pretending to look for his lost pencil.

“You made me lose my lucky pencil, Freckles,” Jaime said sternly, finally meeting her eyes again. “How do you intend to repay me?”

Brienne sighed exasperatedly, barely glancing his way. “Are you suggesting it’s my face’s fault for attracting the pencil?”

“And me,” Jaime smirked, “Your face attracted me from _all_ _the way_ over _there_.”

“We should be paying attention to the lecture.”

“This proximity makes that impossible, dude,” he said. “I was already zoning out before you got here, so you can _imagine_ the improbability of me refocusing.”

“Well,” she said tightly, “ _I’d_ like to listen. If it please you. Your Majesty.”

Jaime quirked an eyebrow. “And my debt, wench?”

“What debt?”

“The pencil.”

She half rolled her eyes, and it was clear she wasn’t sure how much of the exchange was mockery and how much was simple flirtation, and she certainly wasn’t sure if the mock-flirtation was an apology, or if it was a truce. He himself didn’t know. In a way, he wanted to apologize. But he had no intention of shouldering all of the blame for their rocky start. In the space of all of his musing, the air between them warmed uncomfortably. He was aware of their breathing as they both settled to focus on the lecture. Their breaths were uneven, conforming to different patterns; she exhaled ponderously, as though she chose to breathe second by second, and he inhaled in short, loud sniffs, as if constantly on the verge of saying something.

“Are you…” Brienne started suddenly, tipping her head towards him conspiratorially, “Are you getting any of this?”

“Yeah,” he muttered, leaning in, “He’s talking about the etymology of the word ‘urn,’ and about how it’s the same root word for ‘kismet.’ He’s talking about potentiality.”

She turned to face him, then. Her face went slack in admiration. Jaime sat patiently as her wide eyes searched his face for deception. Seemingly finding none there, her darting eyes slowed. He could sense her reevaluation of his intelligence, and he felt his chest glow with warmth when the softest of blushes suffused her cheeks.

He must have been smiling. “Unlike _you,_ wench, I love it when you look at me. It’s like—like you’re taking me _all in._ ”

The pink of her cheeks deepened. She looked at him from beneath her blonde lashes. “You speak High Valyrian… fluently?”

“I’m okay,” Jaime said with a one-armed shrug, but his feline grin gave him away.

“You know the word for ‘potentiality’ in High Valyrian,” Brienne said flatly.

“I would’ve thought you’d be more impressed that I knew the word for ‘kismet.’”

“Oh, that’s child’s play, Kingslayer.” Brienne did a laughable imitation of his nonchalant shrug.

Jaime smirked and lowered his voice, lest the instructor take notice. “And what impressive words do you know, _Brienne_?”

Brienne hunched her shoulders slightly and looked away from him, all illusion of confidence gone. Back to the blushing maiden. Jaime wondered if something in his tone had come off as too acerbic. He found all facets of her wildly amusing, and yet, vaguely mysterious. She was like a familiar scent on the breeze—overpowering in one moment, fading the next—that he just couldn’t place.

 _She’s gonna drive me fucking crazy,_ he thought, and he thought of the pearls, in a sneaker shoebox at the back of his closet.

“I know the word for ‘please,’” Brienne said, a small smile in her eyes. “I know how to say various breakfast items.”

“Mmmm,” Jaime bit his lip, teasing her. “Tell me, wench. Say ‘egg.’ Say ‘bread.’”

Brienne complied. She listed the two items, and then said ‘cheese,’ and what Jaime guessed was the word for ‘grain,’ unless she had indeed meant to say ‘hospital.’ The words out of her mouth sounded as smooth as gravel in a blender.

“That was so shitty.” Jaime couldn’t help but snort a laugh. Brienne jabbed him with her elbow when the instructor squinted into the audience, but that only made him laugh harder. He clapped his hands over his nose and mouth, doubled over with silent laughter. His stomach ached from the pressure of containing his mirth. Only after she had elbowed him thrice more did he sit up, sated. He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. “Fuuuck,” he breathed.

Brienne looked both annoyed and amused by his reaction. “You’re so kind.”

“How did you even get into this class if you aren’t at least _proficient_ in Valyrian?” Jaime asked, rubbing his sore abs.

She shook her head at him. “I don’t know. I signed up for beginner’s High Valyrian.” She took out a piece of paper, studied it again, and then sighed. “I don’t know. This says Beginner’s High Valyrian, Room 301.”

“Let me see,” said Jaime. She handed him the sheet. It was a printout of the classes she planned on surveying for autumn semester. He scanned the classes, finding her foreign language course at the bottom of the list. It read exactly as Brienne had claimed.

“What room is this?” asked Brienne.

“301,” he said. “Oh, snap—you know what—this is room 301B. Your class is probably the one right next to this one. Technically it’s part of the same auditorium.”

“Oh,” she said, clapping a hand to her forehead, “Darn. Okay, yeah.” She rustled her papers together, accepting her crumpled schedule from Jaime’s outstretched hand.

“I tutor Cersei in High Valyrian sometimes,” Jaime remarked casually. His father had not seen fit to teach his daughter any of the modern languages. “You’re her roommate, right? Maybe I could help you through some of the basics.”

Brienne zipped up her backpack and straightened. It was as close to a declaration of truce as they would get. “Yeah,” she said distractedly, “Yeah, maybe.” She shouldered her pack, turned from him.

“For what it’s worth, I think you should defect to Dothraki, Freckles,” Jaime drawled to her back.

“Yeah,” was all she muttered over her shoulder, “Yeah, maybe.”

 

\--

 

_In the weeks following the shooting, she had called the Night’s Watch daily. She had demanded Jeor Mormont’s personal line and had abused it with relish._

_“Miss Tarth,” he would answer with inexorable weariness._

_“Have you made progress on the case?” she would ask, voice thrumming with accusation._

_“Some,” he would always say, and would mention some inconsequential detail to appease her. Perhaps he’d never made progress, perhaps he’d saved up these useless facts knowing she’d call. Renly was suspected to have been leveraged against the governor, he’d said. The Baratheons were deeply involved with the Tyrells, he’d said. Renly’d had a lover, he’d said. Renly’d had a male lover, he’d said. Loras Tyrell. Do you know him? Do you know where we can find him?_

_“Do you have a suspect?” she would ask._

_“No,” he would inevitably say, “We do not yet have a viable suspect.”_

_They’d hit dead end after dead end together. Brienne had done nothing, had accomplished nothing, and yet she had coldly despised Mormont for his alleged inactivity, for his failures, for picking up the phone, for being honest, for reminding her that Renly was dead, that he was never coming back. She had hated the Lord Commander, but she had also loved him, or the idea of him, the idea of someone staying up just as late as she did, remembering him._

_After a few months, her calls had dwindled. She had been gutted by the emptiness of her life, by_ his _lack of life. Brienne was not sure whether Mormont had called Professor Stark, or Professor Stark had simply intuited that Brienne was looking over a dangerous brink, but she had come to Brienne’s room, and she had rallied her._

 

\--

 

Brienne wrapped the towel tightly around her head as she walked from the steamy bathroom. She’d listened to a chorus of giggles all through the duration of her soak, and she heard them with even more painful clarity as she emerged.

Cersei and a woman unbeknownst to Brienne stood in front of Cersei’s wardrobe, facing one another in frozen gossip stances. Cersei’s friend was dark and sultry, with loose black tresses that fell over ample cleavage. She wore a svelte, hip-hugging green dress and astounded Brienne with her easy confidence.

“Red as a beet,” Cersei said, smiling knowingly at her friend.

“Hello,” Brienne said on cue.

Cersei gestured to her friend with a graceful flick of the wrist. “Brienne, this is my good friend, Taena. Taena Merryweather. Taena, this is my lovely roommate, Brienne Tarth.”

Cersei turned her back to Taena, and Taena zipped up the back of her slinky black dress. She patted Cersei’s back, and the blonde bent to fish for shoes at the bottom of the closet.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Taena said.

“Have you,” said Brienne with impassive, but polite eyes.

“Your stature is remarkable,” she said. Then, suddenly, “Are you part of a sorority on campus?”

Cersei scoffed, sinking her foot into an impossibly high stiletto. “I think I would know if my own roommate was in a sorority. You’re not, are you, Brienne?”

“No,” Brienne confirmed.

“See,” Cersei said, “I’m attentive. Even though I’m not here often. Did I tell you?” at this she glanced back at Brienne, “I’m rushing into Highgarden.”

At Brienne’s blank look, Taena supplied, “It’s an elite sorority.”

“I see, congratulations,” said Brienne, “I wish I knew more about it, but I don’t really—you know, keep up with sororities and fraternities.”

“Well, nothing is certain.” Cersei frowned, unimpressed with her roommate’s lack of enthusiasm. She seemed to stand five inches taller than before. She looked impeccable as she brushed golden curls off of her shoulders. “You are coming to Summerhall tonight, yes? You mentioned I’d be meeting a friend of yours.”

“Oh—yes,” Brienne stammered, “Sansa Stark? She wants to meet you.”

“Sansa.” She tried the name on her tongue. Then she looked at Brienne’s clothing somewhat balefully. “What do you plan on wearing?”

Despite the obvious disparity between Cersei’s clothing and Brienne’s, Cersei’s acidic tone still stung. “I haven’t really decided yet.”

Cersei opened her mouth to reply, but seemed to change her mind after subjecting Brienne to an impolite once-over. “Hm,” was all she said, a pretty frown bittering her lips.

She turned towards the door, but then pivoted back around on her stiletto. “Before I forget.” She reached for something on her bed, hidden in a fold of her zebra-striped blanket. “Jaime threatened he would go streaking on Frat Row if I didn’t return this to you.”

Cersei’s slim hand dropped a black flip phone into Brienne’s cupped palm. She regarded it with surprise. She hadn’t even noticed its absence.

“Thank you,” said Brienne quietly, mystified as to when Jaime could have possibly acquired it.

“You’re welcome.”

Brienne hardly noticed the women leave the room. She flipped open her phone with dread and blanched at the twenty-two missed calls from her dad. The pillows bounced when she plopped onto her bed, and scooted back against the wall. With a sigh, she pressed the call button and waited for the dial tone.

 

\--

 

Jaime wasn’t a heavy drinker, but he drank twice as much when he came to these asshole parties. And the only reason he came to these asshole parties was to see Cersei, who was obsessed with them. At least Summerhall was vaguely nice, since it was a co-ed community service fraternity, and this ‘frat party’ was a front for a surprisingly legitimate breast cancer fundraiser. It was more like a caked up apartment party. You got the neon strip on your hand, bought a lot of booze, got crunk, went home, got sick. There would be some freshmen in the back bathrooms smoking pot, and maybe somewhere in the house people were getting frisky. But it’d probably be mostly clubbing.

Jaime _was_ Senator Twyin’s son, and in a lot of ways he found this mosh-pit-lewdness more than a little distasteful.

He felt someone slip a glass in his hand. Tyrion had returned with a round of jello shots. His eyes already drooped with drunkenness, but he had promised he wouldn’t retire until he either passed out or crapped his pants. Jaime took the shot and Tyrion followed suit, sucking it back with a shriveled expression. Jaime gripped Tyrion’s shoulder, hinting that Tyrion should slow his roll. Tyrion belched that it was his matriculation party, so he deserved to get plastered. Actually it’s for breast cancer awareness, Jaime corrected him. It’s my matriculation awareness, Tyrion countered.

The first couple of hours cruised by quickly. People swung past their little smoky table for free shots and poker, and Jaime got roped into several games of beer pong, which left him more sober than he’d anticipated. He drank back an everclear jello shot when Oberyn sat down and started talking smack, which left him reeling. Oberyn did three in quick succession, without looking the least bit put out.

“What do you say you be my wingman?” Oberyn shouted over the thumping bass, after a couple of minutes had passed. “There’s a lady I want to talk to.”

Jaime could hardly understand Oberyn through his haze of liquor, and Oberyn’s slurred Dornish accent only made comprehension more challenging.

“Your _wingman_?” Jaime shouted. “Dude, _your_ wingman? Since when did you need a _wingman_?”

Oberyn shrugged with his palms up, as if to say _you never know._

“Is this another one of your shitty ploys where _you_ actually end up _my_ wingman?” Jaime shouted, lining his thumb with salt for a tequila shot. “‘Cause I already told you, I’m not _interested._ ” He nodded his head to the rib-shaking beat, enjoyed the music pulsing in his chest.

Oberyn took the lime off of the tray of mixed drinks and laid it on the bed of his tongue. “I’m just asking because she looked unique, and I’ve not determined what her type is yet.” He rolled his shoulders languidly.

“No, dude,” Jaime did the shot and hissed, “I’m not buying into your fuckin’ weird sampling of women.”

“Because you’re celibate,” Oberyn smirked.

“I would say you’re so off base, but you _nailed_ it,” Jaime licked the rest of the salt off the back of his hand. “Drink this shot, smartass. Here, have some vodka. Chug that.”

Jaime grinned when he heard Oberyn laugh, and swiveled around on his chair. He perused the dancing throng in the center of the room, looking for Tyrion. He finally found him, fist pumping at the feet of a leggy redhead. He looked like he couldn’t possibly be conscious. He was drenched in sweat, his hair stuck greasily to his forehead in wet strings. And his eyes were barely open, like he was getting a little _too_ into the trance. He was totally unconcerned with the very attractive woman dancing right beside him. Tyrion looked like shit. He looked like his soul had just e _vacuated._

Jaime felt like he should monitor his brother, remind him that Dad’s campaign wasn’t that far off, that they had to be clean. They had to be _spotless._ But he didn’t know what to say without saying exactly that, and he didn’t want to be too much of a buzzkill so early in the term. Especially since it was really _his_ fault that people were watching so closely. His fault that Mormont was waiting for him—for Jaime _and_ Tyrion—to fuck up, lay out some evidence, whip out a gun.

Jaime was sweating liquor, himself. He’d skip the next three _days_ of classes if he had to.

“Damn,” Oberyn hummed, nursing a beer.

“What?” said Jaime. “Feeling it?”

He shook his head with a sigh. “The woman I wanted to talk to. Looks like she’s talking to someone else.”

Jaime followed his eyes to the kitchen. He spotted her immediately, the tall, stooped, bristle-haired blonde. She wore a hot pink blouse that was too tight in the shoulders, and far too unforgiving in the chest. She stood sentry by the kitchen sink, speaking to no one. He didn’t see any guys around, though, as Oberyn had claimed. Jaime looked back at Oberyn. “ _Dude._ ”

Oberyn nodded, puzzled. Prompting him to continue.

“I had no idea that brooding ladies were your type,” he said incredulously. “That’s _Brienne._ You know, the one I told you about, on my basketball team.”

“The one with the eyes,” he confirmed.

For some reason, Jaime suddenly felt uncomfortable that he’d mentioned that. “Yeah. Wait here, I’ll introduce you.” The two of them left their drinks and walked to the kitchen, both sluggish and hyper with drink.

Brienne’s wandering eyes failed to notice Jaime until he waved his hand underneath her nose.

“ _Hello_ , Freckles,” he said, laughing at her startled expression. “You were really zoning out, there.”

“Oh—Lannister. Hi,” she said, shaking herself from some vivid daydream. “What are you doing here?”

“Wench, what are _you_ doing here?” Jaime said, “I didn’t think this was your scene.”

She shrugged listlessly. It was a desolate gesture. She was far from enjoying herself. “I’m here sort of _chaperoning_ someone.” She gestured to Summerhall’s front door with an elbow.

 “That sounds more like the wench I know. Look,” he turned towards the corner, gestured at the wiry, bespectacled man. Oberyn’s arm draped his neighbor’s chair. His previously thrice-unbuttoned shirt became twice unbuttoned. His roommate might have needed an introduction, but he needed no help reading women. Even across the room he wore his gentlest smile, and his gaze unwaveringly met Brienne’s own. “That is my roommate, Oberyn. He’s a real sex machine. He says you’re _unique._ ”

“I don’t have time for your games tonight, Kingslayer,” Brienne said, upper lip stiffening immediately. “I’m looking out for someone.” She crossed her arms across her chest and her shoulders veritably popped out of hot pink sleeves.

The previous jello shots smoothly subdued his annoyance. Jaime flicked a glance back at his roommate, whose smile had become vague. Jaime waved him off. Another time, maybe.

“And where is your _charge,_ then?” said Jaime, “And how did she convince _you_ to come _here_?”

Brienne sighed and shifted towards the kitchen window behind her. She leaned over the sink, surveying the dark lawn. Small clusters of people were gathered on the trimmed grass, sipping beers. She pointed a long finger two a pair of girls, whose features were muted by the night.

Jaime noted how the silver faucet pressed into her sinewy abdomen. He squinted again at the pair of girls and recognized one of them instantly: Margaery Tyrell, the queen of Highgarden. And many other things. The other took him a moment.

“That’s the girl that was outside your room,” he said, “Very pretty. And young. She barely looks eighteen, dude.”

“She’s not drinking,” Brienne said defensively, “And I’m watching her. As you can see.”

“Why aren’t you _outside_? I would’ve guessed you preferred it to this den of iniquity.”

She didn’t directly answer his question. “Podrick is nearby, and I trust him.”

He started to ask who Podrick was when he felt skin graze his arm. Somebody passed closely behind him. Jaime turned to his left, just as a huge, brawny man sidled up close to Brienne. He had a barrel-sized chest with biceps as big as Oberyn’s face and a barely-trimmed, kinky beard. Shoulder-length curly brown hair fell to his brown cannonball shoulders. Jaime couldn’t tell if the liquor was forcing him to exaggerate the man’s size.

Brienne looked at Jaime with wide, emphatic eyes.

“Who is this?” asked the giant man through a nigh impenetrable Dothraki accent. He handed Brienne a red cup, and she took it reluctantly.

“This is Jaime,” said Brienne, “Erm, Jaime, this is Drogo…”

Drogo wrapped a meaty arm around Brienne’s shoulders. She looked narrow compared to him. Her face scrunched up when he lazily pulled her closer to him, ensconcing her in his big sweaty armpit. She did not appear to like it.

Jaime’s roommate was no longer paying attention, had refocused on their corner-post of poker and limes. He could see a couple of their basketball mates sipping beers at the table. He was startled when he turned back to Drogo cooing in Brienne’s ear, drawing small circles on her shoulder with his thumb. When she raised the red cup to her lips, Jaime unthinkingly knocked it out of her hand, splashing the blue drink down the fronts of both of their shirts. Brienne gasped at the chill, and Jaime saw her nipples harden immediately.

Drogo released her to grip Jaime by his t-shirt collar.

“Dude, she’s fucking allergic to _barley,_ ” Jaime lied, half sure the mixed drink contained no such thing. He unfolded Drogo’s hands from his collar. “She could’ve fucking _died._ ”

Drogo’s catlike gaze flicked lazily from Brienne to Jaime, and then he grunted. It was a sound devoid of both interest and remorse. He gave Brienne a single, hard leer and swaggered away from them. Jaime thought it just as likely that Drogo would bring her another gluten-filled drink as he’d fall asleep in a beanbag chair somewhere.

After the big Dothraki man strode out of earshot, Jaime said, “What the fuck were you thinking?”

She glared daggers at him. “It wasn’t my fault he came over here, like some big, drunk caveman—”

“No,” Jaime said incredulously, running his fingers through his hair in disbelief, “I meant about the drink, Brienne. You don’t know who the _hell_ that guy was. You don’t just drink open drinks from guys you don’t _know_. For someone so fucking cynical, your naïveté really fucking astounds me.”

She balled her fists at her side, as if readying herself to hit him, but she faltered in her response. Unable to meet his glare, Brienne looked again out the window. Finding Margaery and the young girl still on the lawn, she visibly relaxed.

After a moment he gently took her wrist. “Come on, let’s go in the other room before he comes back.”

Jaime led her back to the living room where the music had switched from trance to retro techno. He pulled her to the edge of the dance crowd into a couple of empty chairs. He found it surprisingly hard not to look at her erect nipples when there was a giant blue splotch in the middle of her shirt framing the small heave of her breasts.

“What are you _wearing,_ Freckles?” He distracted himself by her fashion choice. “Pink is… not your color.”

She looked down at her shirt, and closed her eyes in silent mortification. “I know. It’s just, my roommate made me second guess myself.”

 _Yup, that sounds like Cers_ , he thought. “Pink is Cersei’s color, not yours.”

Some miserable thought darkened her expression. “I don’t have a color, so pink is just as good as any, I’d guess.”

“Dude, blue,” Jaime said, plucking at the blue stain on her shirt, “Blue is definitely your color.” Oops, he’d noticed them again.

Brienne looked doubtful, but she didn’t argue.

“That guy,” Jaime started again, “That Drogo guy. He seemed to like you.”

Brienne shifted in her seat, reddening. “No, he was just bored. Sometimes they do that.”

“Who does what?” he said.

“Guys. Mess with me, when they’re bored.” She set her big blue eyes on him. “Like you do.”

Sometimes she seemed so coy. Jaime considered his words. “Drogo was touching you. Like, your shoulder.”

He paused as her blush deepened. “You seemed to like it,” he said.

“How would you know what I like or dislike?” she replied icily. She crossed her arms, and turned her broad back to him.

“I don’t, that’s why I’m asking you,” Jaime laughed. “Would you have preferred if maybe I hadn’t interfered? Instead I got you all wet.”

“Your shirt,” he added lamely.

Brienne turned back to him, her jaw set and eyes steely. “Don’t bully me, Jaime. I’m not learning any lessons from this.”

“You said my name,” Jaime smirked. Then he scooted his chair closer to her, whispering conspiratorially. “I’m not bullying you, Brienne. I’m asking honestly. I’m curious. Okay—I’m teasing you a bit—that’s never gonna stop. Okay? I’m your friend. And maybe your tutor _and_ wingman. My roommate thinks you’re _unique._ Like, _exotic._ That basically means sexy, Brienne.”

He threw the ‘Friend’ word like a fastball, realizing he suddenly wanted it to be true. She barely reacted to his declaration, except to narrow her eyes. She probably thought he was piss-drunk. Which, he was. She’d confront him about it later, test his convictions. She was that type.

“Exotic. _Really._ You mean hideous. That’s what you mean. I _said_ don’t bully me, Jaime.” Brienne stood to leave.

“Threatening me with rescinded friendship?” Jaime roped his arm around her waist and guided her back into her seat. He felt her shiver when he retracted his hand from her waist. “Very well, wench. I’ll do my best. I’ll behave.”

“We’re not friends.”

There it was. Jaime tried to bite back a smile, tried to bite back a grin when she blushed at him through her lashes, because it was _so fucking_ inappropriate to be excited, inappropriate to be _so_ happy that someone was as desperate and eaten up and sickeningly lonely inside as he was.

 

\--

 

_“Everything you have, everything you love, everything you desire,” Aerys had said in the missive, “Will be taken from you.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ended up being really long, so I had to chop it up. More on the party from Brienne's POV in the next chapter! Among other things.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading. ;-;
> 
> What did you think?
> 
> Miko


End file.
